


Maybe We Don't Want to Be Found

by birdoflastsummer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chaptered, Dean Whump, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Dean/others, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Prostitution, Revenge, Slow Build, Top!Castiel, alpha!cas, bottom!Dean, omega!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdoflastsummer/pseuds/birdoflastsummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has debts to settle with an organized and fairly expansive Omega prostitution ring in the greater Lawrence area headed up by Alastair. He's long decided the best way to destroy is from within, but the more entangled Dean gets, the more he comes to rely on Castiel, a local reporter who is reeling from his own ghosts.<br/>I will finish this fic at some point, but for the moment please know that it is not being updated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Frenzy

**Author's Note:**

> Some warnings: implied relationships for Dean outside of Dean/Cas, prostitution and dubious consent. If more warnings come along I'll add them.

“If you want to be happy, then _be.”_

Dean stares at the words sprawled across the billboard on the other side of the road with such intensity that he’s surprised it doesn’t burst into flames.

The sound of a blaring horn cuts through Dean’s distraction, and he turns to see a black Impala climbing toward him.

“About time,” Dean says roughly when it reaches him and comes to a stop. He pulls the back passenger door open to throw his duffle bag in before rounding the trunk, running his fingers along the smooth exterior as his eyes search for any sign of abuse.

Crowley climbs out and responds by blowing a plume of cigarette smoke in Dean’s face, laughing when Dean wrinkles his nose in complaint.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” Crowley says, looking everywhere but Dean's face. Dean glares but allows Crowley’s eyes to clinically rake down his torso, take in his broad shoulders and the slight bow of his knees.

Dean’s jeans are discolored from dirt, fraying around the bottom and faded from use. His flannel is wrinkled and hangs loosely around his shoulders. The top button is missing.

Whatever Crowley was looking to see – or not to see – Dean seems to have passed.

Crowley nods. “Get in.”

Dean drives them to the usual shack, tucked behind a not-quite street off the service road of Interstate-35 in Kansas City. Patches of the structure’s appallingly mint green Stylecraft exterior remain, but most of the color has been licked away by black flames out the windows and the south and east walls. The remnants of a patio are mostly caved in, and shingles from the roof and paneling from the guttering hang limply, covered in charcoal.

Dean’s just sat down on a thoroughly second-hand couch when a rank scent, at first faint, seeps into the air. Dean doesn't have to turn around to sense that Alastair has emerged from a back office. Crowley stands a little straighter, but Alastair doesn’t even glance at him as he passes behind Dean and swats at the back of Dean’s head, walking toward the bedroom.

“Come on, it’s been forever,” he beckons.

“I need to shower,” Dean replies.

“Just brush your teeth,” Alastair calls from the next room.

Dean walks in to find Alastair lying on the bed, his pants and boxers removed and his hands behind his head. He didn’t even bother taking off his damn shirt. Dean silently unbuttons his own and slips out of his jeans and boxers before settling over him.

 

Dean mostly sleeps the rest of the day, opting for the couch over the bed, even though Alastair leaves it quickly after he and Dean are finished. When Dean startles awake, he finds his heart is hammering in his chest, he’s drawing quick, shallow breaths and it’s fallen dark outside.

“You awake, sleeping beauty?” he hears Alastair call.

Dean doesn’t answer. The images in his head are still too fresh. He can still hear the sound of a creaking door, smell the ghost of putrid, overripe apples hanging in the air, haunting him when he lets his guard down...

 _Focus_ , he tells himself.

Dean walks into the kitchen, white appliances nearly completely chipped away and rusted. Alastair is pouring over papers at the table, and there are two other men in the room, one standing near the refrigerator and another sitting to Alastair's right. Crowley is no where in sight. Dean recognizes the men’s faces but doesn’t know their names. He can’t know their names.

“You’re on tonight again,” Alastair says, raising his eyebrows in Dean’s direction but not moving his eyes from his papers.

Dean passes through the kitchen and one of the men’s eyebrows quickly contract and his eyes sharpen on Dean, taking a quick, dismissive whiff.

“You need to shower,” the man says.

Dean doesn't doubt it. He's sure he smells horrendous. Between last night's activities and Alastair, he could stand under a power hose for a month and still feel dirty. It feels like it's been absorbed into his skin, slipping through the cracks and settling bone deep.

Rather than voice that, Dean pulls a box of cereal from the pantry, shoving his hand inside the box and tossing a fistful into his mouth. The man is still frowning at him like he’s got something unpleasant under his nose, so Dean grins lazily and chews at him.

“Be ready in 45,” Alastair says dismissively, drawing everyone’s attention back down at his papers. Alastair cocks an eyebrow pointedly to one of the men and says, “who’s supporting him?”

The man Dean was chewing at flinches at the cold tone in Alastair’s voice, and Dean almost smiles. The only people Alastair regards less than Dean are his employees.

 

Two hours later Dean is settled in a corner booth at Perdition, one of the seedier bars in West Ward, with a different pair of men on either side of him. One is larger than Dean, and the other keeps a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Drunken men leer at Dean from all corners of his vision, always turning away the moment he makes eye contact. He figures no one would dare approach with the Alphas practically blocking him, but it's happened in the past and he spies some familiar faces. Dean's a regular at this bar and its patrons run in the same circles enough to know what Dean is: a prostitute. Not just any prostitute, though -- Alastair's favorite. Reserved for the high-class deals and, at least according to the rumors, Alastair himself.

Dean longs again for the power hose.

An Alpha stumbles over, tripping into a tight grip on the table across from Dean and splitting into a grin. Dean recognizes him as the man who was singing Journey's "Any Way You Want It" at the top of his lungs on top of the bar a few weeks back. Dean had rather enjoyed the performance before his night went downhill.

“Is he available tonight?” he says, raising eyebrows at the man whose hand did not leave Dean’s shoulder.

Dean hadn't taken him for the prostitute-buying type, but this guy clearly has no idea who Dean really was, or what he is doing here. He's clearly intoxicated, but his eyes have a playful gleam to them. Dean finds the naivety was strangely comforting.

“Out of your league,” the hand on Dean's shoulder replies crisply, fixing him with a glare.

“I don’t know about that,” the drunk man frowns, then leans in conspiringly. “My brother, just between you and me, needs it pretty bad. He's harmless though, and he keeps lookin' at freckles here. How much is he going for?”

The larger man in Dean’s entourage slowly begins to shift from his seat. He stands outside the booth and, drawn to his full height, the drunk man’s eyes flick up and widen. He mumbles a few words and disappears back into the crowd.

Once he's gone, Dean's boredom returns.

“When is he coming?” Dean asks to no one in particular as the larger man moves back into the booth.

“Getting anxious, boy?” the hand on his shoulder smirks wickedly.

“I’m bored, and he’s late,” Dean says.

“It’s not your place to be bored,” the man says.

Dean glares. “I’ll be bored whenever I want to be,” he says in a low, dangerous voice. “Don’t forget your place.”

Then the larger man draws a slow, deep breath through his nose, and Dean’s head snaps to watch the movement with rapt attention. His companion nods, and the Alphas on both sides of Dean depart immediately.

Dean only has time to register that he is momentarily alone before a different man with probing, gray eyes and gray-white hair – all of which has fled to the sides of his head – slides down next to him with the sense of righteousness so strong it was nearly palpable.

“Dean, I take it,” sniffing with a pleased look on his face. Dean immediately smells wood and dirt. _Politician,_ Dean thinks. Maybe banker.

“Alastair sends his regards,” Dean says lightly, inclining his head slightly.

“You come highly regarded,” he said conversationally, his voice dripping in charisma as he sloshes around the rum in his glass. Dean hates that this guy gets to have alcohol and he has to be sober.

Oh well. Show time.

Dean moves his body to fully turn toward Zachariah, taking care to lean forward as he pivots to expose his neck, pursing his lips and blinking his long eyelashes slowly. His legs part slightly with the movement.

“You betcha,” he grins, and something feral flashes in Zachariah’s eyes. Dean knows it immediately and his grin widens slightly. “How would you like to come?” Dean asks in a lowered voice.

Zachariah’s eyes dilate, his hand is on Dean’s wrist and then Dean’s being pulled away from the booth and out of the bar. Dean is led to Zachariah’s black Maserati. Before he ducks in, Dean spots his handlers, already in position in one of Alastair’s trailing cars across the parking lot. Dean keeps his eyes on the side mirror, watching as the trailing car matches every turn.

Zachariah doesn’t say a word yet, but 15 minutes later he pulls into a posh, gated community and then through another set of gates to his property, which is set back with an immaculately manicured yard.

Dean expects Zachariah to stop at the garage, a kind of arch where another car sits parked near a home entrance, but he instead continues driving around the house and parks out of sight of the road. Zachariah gets out and Dean moves to follow him, not to the house, but further into the yard.

They enter what looks like a locked shed, and Dean is unsurprised to see a set of stairs leading to a basement of some sort. Dean steels himself as Zachariah turns to head down the stairs, and follows until they’re at the bottom.

The room is silent and the darkness is thick. Dean’s eyes dart around, and he wills them to adjust, but he can’t make out any shapes.

“I’m going to need for you to be quiet,” Zachariah says, his voice no longer conversational. It’s tense and deep and breathy and it sets Dean’s hair on edge. This is always the worst part. Not the act, not the sex. The waiting for it. The not knowing if this guy is going to hurt him, or make him hurt himself.

Dean still can’t see anything, and shifts restlessly on his feet. The smell of dirt is overwhelming, and has nothing to do with him being underground. The Alpha in the room is aroused.

A sharp sound of a match being struck startles him. About 10 feet away, Zachariah’s face is momentarily, fiercely illuminated before the flame lowers to a candle on an end table in front of him. There’s enough light to see Zachariah’s unsmiling face.

Dim shapes of a bed and a bedframe adorned with wrist cuffs are illuminated. A coiled up rope sits on the nightstand. A quick flick of his eyes around the room shows there is also a desk, and Dean steels himself.

“I can be quiet,” Dean murmurs, moving slowly toward the bed.

 

\----

_Earlier that night…_

 

It’s better than Cas hoped for – his new, tiny apartment sits at the end of his apartment building, bookending the two-story structure. The ceiling slopes up cavernously, creating the illusion that the room is larger than it is.

It’s exciting because the apartment definitely isn’t big. But he starts work this week, and he’s looking at three long, likely hungry weeks before he gets his first paycheck.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see Gabriel’s name flash and fade.

“All settled in?” the text reads.

Cas ignores it, electing instead to look around. He considers how nice a table would look in the open dining room. It’s not so much a dining room as the area _over there_ in the living room, but the hideously fake wood floors are pretty much the nicest feature he's got.

He pulls open the refrigerator and stares at the impressively empty insides. The loaf of bread actually seems out of place.

A sharp knock on the door tells Cas that Gabriel’s text was mostly for show. He pulls open the door for a shorter man radiating boredom, mischief and chocolate chip cookies barrels past him.

“It’s very Martha Stewart,” Gabriel comments, stepping in and twirling in circles to take in the room. Cas tilts his head to the side. He has almost no furniture and absolutely nothing that could pass as decorations. Martha Stewart would have her work cut out for her.

Cas cuts straight to the issue at hand.

“I have a meeting with Naomi early tomorrow, and I’d like to make a good first impression at work,” Castiel says.

Cas knows what his brother wants, and it’s probably not a good idea. Castiel had just moved back to his hometown of Lawrence but been putting Gabriel off for nearly a week. Castiel never wanted to come back, but he had been offered the city hall beat at the local newspaper. Lawrence is a mid-size market but a definitive step-up from unemployment. In Cas' experience, all the worst kinds of corruption happen where people aren’t looking for it.

“Oh, I’ll have Cinderella back before she turns back into a pumpkin, don’t you worry,” Gabriel says, swinging his car keys around his finger and hitching his eyebrows.

It turns out Cas’ royal ball is a seedy bar blocks from Gabriel’s apartment that smells strongly of marijuana and bodily fluids. Castiel wrinkled his nose at the onslaught of scents, but Gabriel simply spreads his arms as if welcoming his people and heads to the bar.

The two claim a table along the wall and, under his brother’s attentive eye, proceed to get plastered. Gabriel lines up three shots for each of them, and they keep a stream of whisky sours coming until Cas’ vision starts swimming and Gabriel stumbles off to switch to beer.

Castiel can tell most of the men around are Alphas – some of which smell like they’ve knotted recently, other like they’re on the prowl tonight. An Alpha himself, the muted smells have put him on edge since his last relationship ended. In fact, most things put him on edge since his last relationship ended.

Cas blinks rapidly and surveys his surroundings to get his bearings. There seems to be a regular crowd along the back wall. The man lounging in the rounded corner booth has a patchy beard and hollowed cheeks, and he pulls from a cigarette. On the other end of the booth sits a larger man in a suit who looks like he’s prepared to kill someone at a moment’s notice.

What intrigues Castiel, though, is the man wedged between them. Hollow-cheeks keeps his hand on the man, who Castiel would assume is his Omega if he didn’t look so uncomfortable with the present company. Cas can see the tension in the maybe-Omega’s face as his sharp eyes scan his surroundings, though he doesn't seem to be cowering in the discomfort.

“He comes here a lot, and I hear he’s for hire,” Gabriel’s voice cuts into Cas’ analysis, and he gracelessly slides over a beer with a grin and waggling eyebrows, “if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Cas says simply, recognizing and honing in on the danger immediately. “No if he’s for hire, no if he isn’t.”

“Thas’a fine chuck of man meat over there Cas,” Gabriel says appraisingly. “Just the thing you need before your big day!”

Cas summons all his drunken focus. “No.”

“I’m gonna do it.”

“I will steal your phone and text Kali all the spoilers to Downton Abbey.”

“We’re on the fritz right now, ‘lil bro. Besides, you don’t know any spoilers. Do you even have a TV?”

Really, the entire idea is out of the question. Cas has had trouble with intimacy in relationships that are actually built in mutual affection. Taking a tumble with a hooker – _or whatever this man might be –_ was laughable.

And nauseating. Cas felt a sickness drape over his skin as his eyes scan the Alphas in the bar, most of which had leered at the man's table at one point or another and likely didn’t have Cas’ qualms.

“How do you even know he’s for hire?” Cas’ eyes dart back over. He couldn’t deny the man was attractive. Castiel was a healthy 100 feet away from the man, but he could see his strong jaw line and broad shoulders. Then he looked at his handlers. Were they protecting him? From what?

“You hear and see things when you leave your apartment more than once a month for non-work activities,” Gabriel says, taking a healthy gulp of his beer and smacking his lips. “And since this is your one and only blip on the social radar, attention must be paid. It’s my brotherly duty to get you laid.”

"Gabriel-" Cas growls.

"You don't have to be charming! That's the whole point of prostitutes," Gabriel says excitedly.

Gabriel slides back out of the booth, and Cas moves to stand, but the bar starts tilting dangerously and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Castiel has been sitting for a while, and probably shouldn’t have had that last whisky, he decides.

When his eyes open, it’s in time to see Gabriel trip into the table where the three men sit.

Castiel watches in horror as his brother _propositions_ the man in the middle. The two flanking men look at Gabriel like they might be choosing where best to bury his corpse, though the one in the middle looks mildly amused.

The larger man moves to get up, pulling himself to his full height – at least two heads taller than Gabriel. Cas watches his brother turn around immediately and beeline back to Cas, who is grinning victoriously and can almost feel the weight of air around him lessen.

“Don’t look so pleased, mister,” Gabriel says, leveling a finger and drunkenly squinting. “That was your one chance of getting laid.”

“I think I’ll get over it with time,” Castiel says, settling back in, digging an ice cube out of his glass and popping it in his mouth. His eyes flicker over to see the man leaving with a balding middle-aged man.

Then Gabriel gets them one more shot and toasts “to freckles,” which Cas assumes is a reference he doesn't understand, but he doesn’t think about anything else for the rest of the night.

 

\---

 

That night, Dean has his only dream again.

A deep voice and a small one, a creaking door, rotting apples.

Then, always, Dean wakes up sharply. He never feels refreshed after his dream. Now he stays very still in the black of the room, noting the deep, level breaths of Zachariah beside him. Everything smells, and he spots a wad of money on the nightstand. The rope must’ve been covering it before.

Dean has work to do now, but his mind wanders to a conversation Alastair had with him 15 years ago.

_“They aren’t paying for the sex,” Alastair had said crossly. “They are paying you to leave in the morning.”_

Dean slowly sat up, grabbed the money and walked to the desk.

 

Three months later, Zachariah is dead.


	2. Long Island Iced Tea

Dean can’t sleep.

It had been easy, really. Killing Zachariah. Since Dean’s night with him, Zachariah had started taking up a regular cycle of prostitutes, always going back to Alastair’s Omegas to keep it off the radar. Alastair’s reputation for absolute secrecy was second-to-none among area lowlifes. On alternating weekends, a different prostitute was to be brought back to the shed.

The scheduling had been easy enough to overhear while Alastair thought Dean was sleeping off the latest fuck.

Dean was able to search Zachariah’s desk after he fell asleep, sated from fucking Dean raw. Dean found delivery notes to a P.O. box in town, some marked just the previous week.

The packages were delivered in clusters of three or four in a four-day span with months separating them. Dean’s sampling wasn’t as large as he would’ve liked – only six months, or three spikes in package deliveries – but this wasn’t his first rodeo. He had watched the post office for less than a week three months later when Zachariah showed up to claim his packages.

Zachariah didn’t take them home right away, instead waiting for the cover of darkness before walking back to the shed and unlocking the latch. Dean stayed hidden in the ridiculously elaborate shrubbery, a safe distance away to hide his scent, and once Zachariah entered the shed Dean slipped in behind.

The press got a hold of it the next day: City Manager Brutally Murdered, the headlines sprawled.

Dean couldn’t consume too much news without drawing suspicion, and it was driving him crazy. Did the police have leads? What was being made of the underground lair? Were the authorities connecting it to the string of murders in recent years?

Every time he replayed the events, considered the consequences if something goes wrong, his stomach lurches like he’s missed a step on the stairs. Except the familiar feeling grips him tight and strangles him for hours.

No, sleeping was not an option anymore.

Dean stands with his arms crossed outside a bail bonds business, feeling the eyes of all who pass him and, more often than he would like, sensing curious whiffs in his direction. Dean’s scent was practically radiating frustration, a problem compounded by the fact that he _wasn’t supposed_ to be frustrated. Dean was at the bottom of the totem pole – he was supposed to hunker down and let the powers that be sort it out.

Alastair had been thunderous the night before, when he received the call about Zachariah. Murdered in a shed at his own home. Alerting police to the underground dungeon in plain sight.

The amount of bodily fluids on the mattress or caked onto the wrist cuffs of the bed should be putting forensic investigators in a frenzy.

Dean had been informed that his john tonight cancelled. Alastair’s other clients were spooked. Clearly whoever did Zachariah in knew about the shed, and wanted to expose the dirty little secret of one of the city’s most powerful officials. Alastair was held responsible for ensuring that the people who knew of Zachariah’s weekend habits were the kind not to murder him for it. Or worse, tip others off.

Dean had done both. His lungs feel oddly crushed as he scans the street. With Alastair’s underground ring burrowing even further to the ground, he’s found it increasingly clear that his mind doesn’t make good company.

What he needs is distraction.

Just then the doors tingle behind him and Crowley emerges from the bail bonds storefront, adjusting his collar and looking pleased.

“Still not used to it, eh?” Crowley asks.

“Yeah, well we can’t all be as terrible as you,” Dean says.

“It’s a gift,” he says. “Really, you have to relax. No one suspects anything.”

“Not yet.”

“Indeed, with you trouncing around and stinking the lot up,” Crowley says, looking at Dean distastefully.

Dean scowls. He fantasizes about sending Crowley the pent house apartment hell surely has waiting for him, but the uneasy alliance was a necessity in the muddy water he’s waded into. A means to an end, Dean repeats to himself.

Dean’s whole life was about keeping his enemies close, or whatever the saying was. He wishes he could remember the little proverbs Sammy used to recite, walking around the house so _pleased_ and eager to discuss the books he’d just finished…

“I need to go out tonight,” Dean declares, derailing his thoughts. “It’ll get my mind off things.”

“I’ll run it by Alastair,” Crowley replies.

 

That night Dean returns to Perdition. He wishes there was somewhere better to go on this, a night off – maybe a place where a quarter of the patrons aren’t explicitly aware of him being a prostitute – but the dive has its perks.

Mainly, that the quarter of patrons who know stay the hell away from him. He’s made a quite the reputation for himself as the type of Omega who won't pant after any Alpha who glances his way. He’s not proud of much, but at least he’s got that.

Dean’s not opposed to a hook up on his own time, though. No matter what Alastair’s done to him, Dean is resolved not to let Alastair ruin the sex he has on his own terms. He _likes_ sex. And he’s thinking that might be just what he needs.

The bar’s in full swing by midnight, music blasting while people throw darts, dance and do their best to get laid. Dean is nursing a Jameson on the rocks when someone barges by him and crashes into the barstool two down from him.

“I would like some alcohol,” the Alpha says simply to the bartender. His voice sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel.

“Any preference?” the bartender asks, bemused.

The man blinks, like he hadn't foreseen this line of questioning, then squints at the drinks scrawled on the chalkboard over the bar. Then he nods.

“The one that’s going to get me drunk the fastest,” he concludes solemnly.

Dean’s restless watching the interaction, taking in the askew tie and oversized trench coat. The man’s head starts to rotate ever-so-slightly in Dean’s direction.

 _Fuck_. He smells good.

Dean inhales slowly. He smells clean, like laundered clothes or freshly shampooed hair. And speaking of hair, tuffs of the dark brown locks are sticking out and curling slightly at places, looking like someone just finished running their fingers through it during a particularly devastating fuck.

Dean really can’t help himself.

“Rough day?” Dean asks, fixing his features into his most charming smile.

The man turns then, startled, eyes widening slightly. And god _damn_ are his eyes blue.

“I suppose you could say that,” he says evenly after a moment. Just then the bartender returns and pushes over what looks like a Long Island Iced Tea with a straw, and the Alpha jumps at the excuse to turn his attention away from Dean.

Dean watches him cradle the drink with strong hands that Dean’s annoyed to realize he finds attractive. His mouth closes over the straw and plump, frowning lips pull at the alcohol insistently.

Well.

That’s really not fair.

Dean feels like he’s imagining the pleasant scent of mint and cotton and cucumber growing stronger the longer he watches. He’s just opening his mouth to try to get the name this wonderful cocktail of a scent belongs to when he catches it. A whiff of rotting fish. A moment later, an Alpha whom Dean recognizes as Ion, a Perdition regular, slides onto the bar stool separating Dean and Straw Man.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says.

“Can I help you?” Dean replies tersely.

Ion knows who Dean is, but unfortunately is too big of a moron to leave him alone.

He runs his eyes over Dean’s face, then flickers them down his body deliberately before leaning in.

“I don’t know, can you?” he asks, an eyebrow lifting knowingly and his rancid breath floating over Dean’s face.

“Not interested,” Dean says, tone firm and determinedly bored. “Go find somewhere else to stick your dick tonight.”

Ion frowns. “But I thought that’s what you were for?” he says petulantly, now reaching over to Dean’s thigh and running a finger up the seam of his jeans. Dean jerks his leg away like he’s been burned.

“I can pay – what’s the going rate?”

“I suggest you leave before I cut off your dick and use it to play darts with your buddies,” Dean growls, tensing for a fight.

“Maybe you can try biting it off after I put it in your mouth, Omega,” he says, dangerously low.

“You that desperate for a blowy?”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean smirks.

Ions eyes narrow, but all the hairs on the back on Dean's head stand on end when a new voice enters the conversation.

“Stop.”

The gravely tone is surprisingly strong from behind Ion, and Dean’s eyes shift to see Long Island Iced Tea fixing Ion with a wrathful look.

He moves to stand, drawing himself up rigidly. He glares at Ion, his face fixed like he’s about to smite him. “He said no.”

Ion stands up, too, posturing before Dean. “Mind your business,” he hisses.

Dean bristles, not one to cower and let an Alpha -- however attractive and no matter how unnaturally deep his voice is -- fight his battles.

“Looks like the people have spoken,” Dean grins condescendingly at Ion. “Go whack it somewhere else.”

The music hadn’t stopped, but conversations nearby have started to drop off in favor of watching the confrontation. Ion glares between Dean and Sex Hair, before huffing and rolling his eyes.

“Whatever,” he drawls, turning to roll his eyes at Dean. “You’re not worth the trouble.”

As Ion walks away, Dean eyes shift back and he watches the tension visibly melt off the other Alpha. He collapses back into his bar stool and lowers his head to the straw again, like the mini-confrontation had absolutely drained him and he wants nothing more than to have the liquor directly inserted into a vein.

Dean watches, fascinated. With the scent of fish fading, Dean can pick up on the Alpha’s stress and frustration, but also something tangier that he can't place.

“Thanks,” he offers cautiously, choosing the seat next to him and turning to face the man. “I’m Dean.”

“Castiel,” he replies, turning to glance at Dean quickly and then returning to his drink. “And it’s no problem.”

Castiel. Weird name, yet strangely familiar.

“Well, uh, not to judge, but I think we could both use another drink,” Dean says, trying for lighthearted and damn near managing it while practically subtly drinking in the fresh scent. “How ‘bout the next round’s on me?”

Castiel now turns his whole head to look at Dean, tilting it slightly as he squints at Dean’s face.

“You want to buy me a drink?” he says haltingly.

“Sure,” Dean grins, all condescension gone this time. “Isn’t that how the old saying goes? I’ve gotta buy you a drink first.”

Not his best line, but he throws on him a grin.

Castiel’s eyes have become as round as saucers, mouth frozen slightly parted from where he was funneling his drink. How did he go from teeming with barely-contained wrath to acting like a puppy?

“You don’t need to do that,” he answers quietly, before turning to take what Dean deems an impressive gulp of Long Island Iced Tea and finishing it off. “I should really be going.”

Dean immediately retreats.

“No problem, man,” Dean hastens to say, pivoting back to face the bar and throwing up his walls of defense. “I was just messing with you.”

He wasn’t, and he hates himself for it. Dean doesn’t usually have to work very hard to get others’ attention, but getting shut out is disturbing some of his more carefully buried doubts and opinions.

Castiel reaches past his trench coat and sports jacket to draw his wallet from the breast pocket, and Dean can’t help but register out of the corner of his eye a rather fit-looking torso under all the layers. The movement also unleashes fresh scents of cotton to assault Dean’s senses. He doesn’t breathe, afraid that he won’t be able to stop himself from burying his nose in this incredible-smelling man’s neck.

He needs to get a grip. So the guy doesn't want to sleep with him? That makes sense.

Castiel pushes down some money on the bar, making eye contact with the bartender, before taking one last fruitless sip at the Long Island Iced Tea and moving to stand.

“Have a good night,” he announces, then he pauses and his eyebrows contract. “You’re… if I…”

Dean groans internally and tries to fight off being offended and irrationally disappointed.

“I’m fine,” Dean says, tone colder than is probably warranted but he finds he can’t give a damn. “Have a good night, man.”

Castiel nods awkwardly and leaves, and Dean definitely doesn’t catch himself breathing deeply for a few minutes until the scent fades before calling it a night.

\----

Even though his whole body felt heavy with exhaustion that night, Castiel lays in bed unable to sleep.

Work had been a nightmare that day. His day started at 4 a.m. with urgent texts that turned into urgent calls from his editor.

 **_4:03 a.m._ ** _: Police dispatched to Zachariah’s house_

 **_4:04 a.m._ ** _: Scanner chatter says possible body found_

 **_4:17 a.m._ ** _: Call LPD stat_

News of the murder had consumed his entire day. He’s still relatively green on the city hall beat, but he’d worked closely with Zachariah as a few city projects moved through development. Zachariah always struck Castiel as deeply political, shamelessly ambitious and overall backwards, but Castiel hadn’t pegged him for likely-to-be-murdered-outside-his-home-slash-sex-dungeon.

Then came the press conferences, where the deputy city manager simply stated that the investigation was ongoing and could not comment on rumors of nefarious activity inside Zachariah’s shed. Police recited basic information from the significant activity report – stab wound, one entry and exit point, died from blood loss and damage to internal organs – but told the media that the rest was being kept on lockdown until the investigation was over.

It was the kind of chaotic, demanding day that most reporters thrive under, but Castiel felt nauseous over it. He was covering city government so he wouldn’t have to deal with murders.

The nausea tipped into full-on sickness when Naomi, his editor, approached his desk that night. It was just after 11:30 p.m. and he’d just filed his story, and Naomi informed him that she wants Castiel to go to Zachariah’s home tomorrow.

“Simply give the family the opportunity to speak, if they want to,” she explained, as if Castiel’s carefully schooled blank expression was out of misunderstanding. “You have an honest face. If they want to address any of the rumors, they can. We won’t know until we ask.”

Despite spending a full day consumed in thoughts of murder and torture dungeons, it was dread over bothering the family that pushed him to Perdition.

Then he saw Dean. The man was even more gorgeous than he could make out from across the bar all those months ago. A smattering of freckles along his nose and cheeks, bright green eyes and full lips, tumbling right out of Castiel’s fantasies.

Castiel burrows further into his bed. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes and pulling the sheets up to his chin, willing away the strange churning in the pit of his stomach.

The moment he’d sat down at the bar he could sense an Omega, a sweet, bursting scent of fruits and undertones in something that Castiel thought might be leather.

When Castiel realized who it belonged to, when he spoke to Castiel, he could hardly fight the swirling in his head.

 _“_ _He comes here a lot, and I hear he’s for hire, if you know what I mean,”_ Gabriel’s voice cut in, scrambling his brain.

It was a sobering thought. Sure, maybe some don’t care. Tons of people sleep around, knowing full well and embracing that sex is just sex. Castiel was never good at that, though. Too much heart was always his problem.

He’d bit his last boyfriend, the first real relationship he’d ever have. Mated him. It wasn’t planned, though Castiel remembers thinking of it as a happy accident in the quiet moments that followed, before he drew back and saw the look of shock and repulsion on Balthazar’s face. The expression still haunts him during quiet moments, keeping him up at night and curled in on himself.

Castiel did not receive a claim back, of course, and had felt his sex drive wither away as scents of any other Omega faded or rotted. Nothing else is supposed to smell good after a mate is claimed.

After that, sex had started to feel like a violation. Too cheap to have meaning at best, nauseating and violative at worst, so what’s the point?

Yet there was Dean tonight, delicious scent assaulting Castiel’s senses for the first time in more than two years.

So naturally he inhaled an $8 drink and he made Gabriel drive him home.

Castiel sits up, punches a pillow into a more comfortable position, and collapses back onto it. Castiel hadn't wanted to tell Dean that he couldn’t afford him, because a selfish and immature part of him holds out hope that Dean could’ve been genuinely interested. As it stands, he had no confirmation that Dean’s face would’ve fallen impassive and closed off, immediately looking for a different Alpha who would pay for him.

Maybe he would’ve gone to that other Alpha who was hitting on him. The thought sends a rush of adrenalin through him.

No, he’ll imagine a world in which Dean would laugh good-naturedly, eyes crinkling like they had when he first spoke to him, and tell him it wasn’t about the money. Or maybe that Gabriel just got it wrong. Maybe he wasn't a prostitute at all.

Castiel rolled his ridiculous thoughts over in his head a thousand times before his alarm clock went off the next morning.

 

Castiel had resolutely refused to allow a staff photographer to come with him as he pulls onto the street of Zachariah’s home. His stomach is in knots. He couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours of fitful sleep, dozing off without realizing it before getting lost in conscious thought again.

Even though he knew his editor would be unsatisfied, all he wants is for the family not to be home.

He opens the door to his Honda Civic and stepped out, scanning the street. He’s parked a little ways down the drive. Zachariah’s home is gated, so all he has to do was walk up and press a button.

His hands fist in the pockets of his trench coat gripping his recorder, notebook and pen. _My name is Castiel,_ he rehearses in his head. _I’m a reporter with the Kansas Tribune. I just wanted to ask if you wanted to make a comment during this, the worst time of your life…_

Castiel comes within a hundred feet of the gate, eyes fixed on the impressive house in the background, when he catches a whiff of fruit. It’s faint, but there. He recognizes it immediately.

His steps falter, head whipping around in all directions.

“Shit,” he hears.

From behind a vine-covered post along the gate, Dean steps into Castiel’s view and turns to face him.

“Heya, Cas,” he says, smiling and waving awkwardly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I don't have an update schedule, but I'm expecting to have updates at least once a week. Keep checking back for more.
> 
> My tumblr's birdoflastsummer.tumblr if you want Dean/Cas/Misha/Jensen photos and fawning.


	3. Action Comics 1

“ _Dean?”_ Castiel asks incredulously, looking between the iron-clad gate around Zachariah’s property and the Omega in front of him, trying to reconcile the two.

“The one and only,” Dean says with a smile.

Castiel eyes him closely. Dean's smile is wide but he looks tired and is shuffling his feet awkwardly. It’s a very different man than the one who offered to buy him a drink the night before. But there’s that scent – fruits, citrus and something deeper. It seems to curl around Castiel and seep into him, pulling him closer and scrambling his senses.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asks.

Dean opens his mouth, but then eyes him suspiciously.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he counters, crossing his arms.

Castiel raises an eyebrow and pulls out his recorder, notebook and pen.

“I’m a reporter with the Kansas Tribune,” he says, holding them up awkwardly.

Dean blinks.

“Casitel Novak,” Dean immediately says, eyes wide.

He’s taken aback, to be honest. Reporters are far from celebrities, though showy broadcast journalists have more a chance to be recognized by face or name than newspaper reporters. Castiel has never been recognized before, and he's deeply embarrassed to realize how pleased he is that Dean knows him.

“As you say, the one and only,” he says, half-smiling and stuffing his hands back in his pockets.

Dean seems to be thinking quickly, turning to look at Zachariah’s house.

“So I suppose you’re here to, um -” he gestures at Castiel, eying the recorder and notebook, “investigate?”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitch as Dean shuffles on his feet.

“No, I’ll be leaving that to the authorities,” Cas says gently. Dean seems to relax at that, and Cas sighs. “I’m here to see if the family wants to make a comment.”

Castiel almost says something stupid like how he doesn’t want to do it and would rather just crawl back into bed because he couldn’t sleep and isn’t that funny because it’s all _his_ fault because he can’t figure out why Dean _smells so good_. But Castiel doesn’t say any of those things, and he feels like someone should congratulate him for his demonstration of restraint.

Dean listens with rapt attention.

“I’ll let you get to it then, Lois Lane,” Dean says, winking and turning to go.

If Dean recognizing his name felt good, Castiel nearly lets out a helpless growl when Dean called him Lois Lane. Something inside him roars its head in delight.

But then Dean is walking away, back down the other way on the street. Castiel’s brain seems to be moving slowly but Dean is leaving and all he can think to do is stop him. He doesn't really think about why that feeling exists.

“Did you call me Cas earlier?” he calls, absurdly. The nickname had fallen from his lips so naturally, and Castiel hadn't even processed that Dean remembered his name at all.

Dean’s step falters and he turns around. His face looks cloudy, then it almost breaks into a smile.

“Didn’t mean to,” he returns, still pedaling backwards slowly. “I’ll call you Lois Lane for now on.”

Castiel watches him go, eventually reaching an impressive black Impala down the street and pulling away entirely, only leaving his lingering scent. Cas forgets to be nervous when he pushes the button outside Zachariah’s estate. No one answers. Naomi is angry, and Cas can’t be find it in him to give a damn.

 

Castiel buries himself in his work over the next few weeks. He puts in requests for all of Zachariah’s expense reports, emails, texts and call history on the city-paid cell phone and meeting schedule for the last six months.

To keep himself busy while waiting for those request to come through – a 10 business day wait followed by an appeal to the state attorney general’s office– Cas begins the long and arduous trek through public data. He tracks everywhere Zachariah had ever lived, worked, vacationed, schmoozed or sipped coffee.

Every day he calls investigators at the sheriff’s department and the state troopers, all who say they can’t give out any information since the incident is still under investigation.

The first drop of public information -- "public _information, what part of that don't you understand_?" Cas has growled at far too many people recently -- to be released was Zachariah’s meeting schedule as city manager, so Cas starts calling the people he regularly met with for work: the usual suspects are the deputy and assistant city managers and department heads around city hall, who all were cordial bordering on confiding before the murder, but are now keeping their heads down and mouths shut.

Then comes the calls to his business appointments as city manager, with bankers, real estate professionals, insurance professionals, utility workers and more. The list is pretty vast, but he calls a few at random that appear more than once – a local businessman named Raphael who is trying to lure an international pharmaceutical company to town, an external auditor named Nick who is looking into utility easements, a local real estate professional named Alastair who is buying up residential and commercial property near the highway, and a computer-store owner named Charlie who is lobbying for high-speed fiber for her area of town.

None of his inquiries led anywhere, which Castiel half-expected, but it keeps him busy. When he’s not buried in paperwork on Zachariah and producing articles for the paper, he starts spending more time with Gabriel. His brother is ecstatic at first, showering him in cookies and insisting that Cas help him alphabetize his porn collection. (“ _You know, like old times!” “We were alphabetizing Disney movies when we were kids.” “These are_ adult _Disney movies! Happy Endings!” “Please stop.”)_

The first time Castiel suggests to Gabriel that they go to Perdition, Gabriel suspects nothing. Cas is working hard, he’s not out of bounds to want alcohol, right?

Castiel most definitely doesn’t mention scanning the patrons for green eyes and freckles and a scent that he just wants to breathe in deeply until he can chemically diagram it. Maybe it’s because he’s hardly been able to smell anything in years, but he’s bound and determined to figure Dean out. When they get to Perdition, though, Dean is nowhere in sight.

The second time he suggests going to Perdition, on an uncommonly cold night about a week later, Gabriel actually turns away from the bowl he's mixing cake batter in and stares at Castiel, who is sitting in what he hopes is casual posture on his big brothers’ living room couch.

“What’s going on?” Gabriel asks immediately.

“Hmm?” Castiel asks, eyes staring at his phone, all innocence and surprise and _oh shit he knows he knows he knows –_

“Don’t act like that, you don’t like going out to clubs,” Gabriel says, walking toward him slowly and accusingly wielding a whisk in his direction, “or being social, or drinking, or having fun, if we’re being -”

“Do you want to go or not?” Cas asks, lifting his chin up defiantly and squinting.

His big brother looks him up and down, then lowers the whisk as his expression alters minutely.

“Is this about Balthazar?” he asks.

“What? No,” Castiel says, wishing intensely that this conversation had never started.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re rejoining the world,” Gabriel says, swiping a finger at the dripping whisk and licking up the batter, but still taking the tone of speaking to a flighty animal. “But it doesn’t seem like you’ve really given yourself time-”

“Gabriel,” Castiel warns, closing his eyes and pinching the brink of his nose.

“-you took the whole thing really hard, even though it’s been years, and we don’t talk about what happened a few months ago, and you’re always working, especially lately-”

“I really don’t need this,” Castiel says, getting up and moving to grab his coat off the back of the couch and swiping his keys sitting next to the door.

“Alright! Hold your muffins, I’ll go with you,” Gabriel says, surprised and moving to untie his apron.

“No, I think I’d rather go alone tonight,” Cas says curtly, pulling the door open. At the last second he refrains from closing it dramatically, and turns to spare Gabriel a glance. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Then he’s walking down the street to Perdition.

 

\----

 

Dean is waiting at his corner booth again, thankfully not bodily sandwiched between Alphas. Instead, he’s ruminating on Crowley’s scent of scorched meat and learning about his newest john.

“Atrophos was out of commission for two weeks after this guy finished with her,” Crowley murmurs to Dean, eyes never stopping their scan of the room.

“Nothing compared to the guy who nearly ended her all together,” Dean grunts, remembering his kill previous to Zachariah. Atrophos was another of Alastair’s Omegas, until she disappeared shortly after sex proved too painful to bear anymore. Dean killed the man, a Beta, who did that to her.

Crowley sniffed at Dean, whose scent was now brimming and angry.

“Tonight’s not the night,” Crowley says. Dean tries to take calming breaths, but Crowley’s scent puts him on edge.

“I need a drink,” Dean mutters, not waiting for permission.

It’s there, waiting for the bartender to make his way down to his end, that he smells him. Dean’s head snaps around, and sees Cas squeezing through humanity to make his own way to the other end of the bar.

Dean seems to hone in on the fresh, minty scent through the crowd. He hasn’t seen Cas since he ran into him outside Zachariah’s place, and he’d been almost too panicked to appreciate the cleansing aroma that this Alpha puts off. Dean eyes him, but Cas doesn’t seem to be watching the bar.

He’d recognized Cas’ name immediately from the byline of the newspaper he’d been surreptitiously reading from a street dispenser outside the bail bonds location. Dean certainly hadn’t expected Cas to be the maddeningly adorable Alpha who turned him down the night before, or to run into him after he’d been dispatched by Alastair to spy on the shed.

It was a stupid errand, anyway. Dean could tell Alastair _exactly_ what was inside the shed at the time of the murder, though his boss thinks he hasn’t been there in months. What the police had taken, though, that was unknown to him entirely. Alastair sent Dean because, hey, if he was caught and arrested, he was no one. No one would suspect him to be more than a looter. Crowley would just let him stay in jail for a couple days, then dispatch someone to bail him out.

The perks of being the favorite prostitute in Alastair's ring.

But instead of dutifully spying and reporting back, there was Cas. And here he was again, buying another Long Island Iced Tea and moving to a table along the wall.

Dean spares a glance back at Crowley, meeting his eyes and trying to give a meaningful look. Crowley checks his watch and flashes Dean 10 minutes until his john is scheduled to arrive. Without further ado, he downs a Black Orchid shot and makes his way over to Castiel.

Castiel notices him when he’s about 10 feet away, eyes widening in surprise, and Dean doesn't hesitate to pull out the chair across from him and makes himself at home.

“Hey, Lois Lane,” Dean says, grinning.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas’ deep rumbling voice returns. His blue eyes are bright.

“What brings you out tonight?” Dean asks casually.

“I’m working,” Castiel says, lifting his glass to his lips.

“You undercover to investigate something?” Dean teases with a smile, then stage whispers in a conspiring tone, “I’m sure this place has about 20 health code violations.”

Castiel actually smiles, his full lips parted and his eyes and nose wrinkled good-naturedly. Dean loses all thought for a moment.

“I think I saw a rat out back the other night,” Cas says, leaning in with his eyes still alight with humor.

“Nah, those are my pet guinea pigs,” Dean says, unconsciously crossing his arms as he leans his elbows on the table. "I let 'em run around outside while I'm in here."

“I’ve always wanted a guinea pig,” Cas says, eyes wide.

“I don’t know if you can have one after you bust this place for a rodent infestation,” Dean smiles.

Cas hums in thought, one side of his mouth tipped up in amusement.

“Good thing I’m not investigating that,” he concludes, then nods in the direction of what Dean knows to be his booth. “Is that Fergus Crowley?”

Of all things in hell and on Earth that Dean expected him to say, this was not it.

“What?”

“Fergus Crowley,” Cas repeats, nodding again over to the booth, prompting Dean to turn and look. Dean would, but he’s paralyzed. “He’s an associate of Alastair Cristoph.”

Dean stares.

“I was lying earlier when I said I was working, but I _am_ still looking into Zachariah’s murder,” Cas explains lightly as if Dean was someone, _anyone_ , else in the whole world. “I know that he met with Alastair a few weeks before he died, then about a month before that-”

“Shouldn’t the police be dealing with this?” Dean interrupts, unable to stop himself.

Cas tilts his head, looking at Dean like he can sort through and analyze his thoughts.

“Of course, but I’m looking into it too.”

“It’s dangerous though,” Dean says, wondering if he’s coming across like some faint-hearted Omega to Cas.

“I doubt anyone cares about me making a few phone calls,” Castiel says, now serious and confused.

Dean can't seem to figure out what is making him panic more: that Castiel is looking into the murder, that he apparently knows about Alastair and Crowley -- and what the hell does that mean? And if Castiel is putting the two together, how much longer until the authorities do the same? Panic is starting to boil under his skin. Cas seems smart, but he’s completely over his head and Dean can’t let him just wander into the lion’s den. There are monsters there that no one should see, and Dean is one of them.

Dean’s mouth opens to respond but he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Crowley standing over him.

“Sorry to break up this little date,” he drawls with barely contained irritation, “but Dean’s got a prior engagement.”

Dean turns back at Castiel, who has gone rigid, eyebrows drawn in and hard eyes assessing the hand on Dean’s shoulder and Crowley’s face. Dean can practically hear the whirring of thoughts coming from the Alpha across the table, but is most acutely aware of how his scent has sharpened.

“Of course,” Castiel says slowly.

Dean is still stunned, so Crowley tugs lightly at his shoulder. Cas’ eyes narrow dangerously, so Dean thinks it's about time to get into gear.

“Have a good night, Cas,” Dean says weakly, then gets up and follows Crowley across the bar. They’ve hardly finished shifting into place when Crowley turns and gives Dean a severe look.

“Do I need to remind you that you’re working?” Crowley says.

“Shut up,” Dean says, wanting to crawl under the table under he can sort out his thoughts.

He doesn’t even get a moment of silence, though, before Crowley sniffs and starts retreating from the booth. Before he leaves though, he levels a finger at Dean.

“Keep it together,” Crowley warns roughly, then he’s cleared out entirely.

Irrational frustration bubbles inside Dean, but then a man with a smarmy face and a snarling smile that doesn’t at all reach his eyes slides next to him. He smells _toxic._

“Dick,” the Alpha says by introduction.

Dean stares, taking a moment to collect his thoughts and unceremoniously shove them into a dark corner of his mind.

“Yes, please,” he murmurs lowly.

When Dean leaves, trailing behind Dick, he can’t help but glance at Cas. He's watching him with a strange cocktail of expressions that Dean can't identify, but one is terribly clear: curiosity.

It’s probably that look that catalyzes Dean’s disastrous night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title's a reference to the beginning of the Superman comic book series.  
> Leave comments if you're so inclined. I love to hear feedback. Also on birdoflastsummer.tumblr  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. The Pearl

The hand on Dean’s lower back set his skin on edge, and it takes nearly everything not to swat away the palm running up and down his arm as Dick leads him to the front doors of a hotel in downtown Lawrence.

The building itself is poorly kept, a would-be architectural gem that has been left to deteriorate over the decades. Dean looks up at the looming and unnaturally narrow building from the sidewalk and hatred boils inside him. The windows have chipped white metal bars over them and everything looks dilapidated, from the handrail on the stairs to the flickering light in the ‘a’ in the illuminated _The Pearl_ signage.

Dick and Dean pass by the front kiosk without a word. Dean meets the eyes of the front desk worker and sees cold disdain staring back. Dean had seen enough stunt douchebag No. 5’s to realize that he is one in Dick’s entourage.

Dean’s mind speeds up, mentally mapping the distance from the door to the elevator, from the elevator to the emergency exits and how quickly the metal doors close around him and Dick. Dick pushes the rounded button with an ‘ _18_ ’ etched on it, the top floor, and leers at Dean from across the small space.

Dean is honing in on details, like how the carpet is stained and it smells horrific. The elevator lurches into life.

“The things I’m going to do to you, Dean,” he says, voice dripping in charisma and scent thick with bile.

Dean meets his eyes. Dean has long-since mastered the art of keeping a stony appearance, never showing apprehension or the deeply seeded hatred for his johns. He’s been fucked in sheds and alleys, in cars, bars and public and never let any them have the pleasure of his discomfort.

Dick isn’t going to be any different, Dean tells himself, even though he’s never been more distracted. He is still picturing Cas’ confusion and casual talks of Crowley and Alastair and Zachariah.

The current unpleasantness outweighs these thoughts. Dick’s hand is back to running up and down Dean’s arm, which is thankfully covered in his jacket, but on every upward stroke Dick slips his fingers inside the sleeve and massages the skin. Dean allows it and his chest aches strangely in distress of how wrong it feels.

The elevator comes to an ungraceful halt at the top floor and the doors slide open, leading out into a narrow hallway with doors on either side. Dean scans for signs of life – the muffled sounds of televisions, running water, maybe a weary traveler stumbling in or out with luggage – but hears nothing. The only sign of anything other than Dick and Dean is the man posted outside Dick’s door, who turns and slips in the card to unlock the room when the two approach.

“Thank you,” Dick says lightly and confidently as if the man were holding open a door at a café. Dean passes through first, and Dick stops to talk to the guard in low voices. Dean scans the bare room: a solitary bed, desk and chair, with two nightstands with lamps, a dresser and a television mounted on it. It doesn’t look like Dick has dropped off any belongings beforehand.

“Now Dean,” Dick boasts, so loud and confident in Dean’s anxious silence that he actually flinches and spins around. The door is pulled shut and Dick steps toward him. “Now that we have some privacy, I thought we could talk.”

Dean allows a look of confusion to cross his face, cranking up the innocence.

“What would you like to talk about?” Dean murmurs, blinking slow and tone deceptively playful.

He hopes this is a prelude to dirty talk, because any other talk is no good. There is literally no part of his life that he wants to divulge with this man, who is now positively reeking of toxic waste.

Dick’s empty smile widens, and Dean makes a concerted effort to breathe through his mouth. Dean is absurdly stricken for the second time tonight with how disguising he feels.

“I think you know,” he says, stepping forward.

Dean’s unsure what to do, every instinct throwing itself against the walls of Dean’s brain and telling him to back away or run, yet firmly-ingrained habits keeping him rooted to the spot. Dick is now right in front of him.

“You wanna talk about all the things you’re gonna do to me?” Dean asks, eyes never leaving Dick’s. Something in them says Dean really shouldn’t look away, and Crowley’s warning about what this man did to Atropose nags at him for the first time.

Dick smiles and points at him.

“Very good, Dean,” he says, still disarmingly charismatic, but he’s shaking his head. “But not the right answer.”

Dean’s brows furrow and he instinctively puts on doe eyes, though his heart is beating quickly.

“Then I don’t know what you want to talk about,” Dean says.

Dean is already calculating the chances that this man knows about Zachariah, or the others before him. How could he know? What business is he in? And if he knows, does Alastair know?

How is he going to get past Dick’s men throughout the building?

“Who was that Alpha you were talking to before I arrived?” Dick asks, a small smile still on his face.

Dean’s thoughts derail. Cas? That’s what this is about? His dirty secret is momentarily safe, but a different shade of the same worry is quite suddenly consuming him.

“He’s no one,” Dean says, speaking slowly and deliberately.

“Then why were you talking to him-” Dick drags a finger down Dean’s torso, “-when you’re supposed to be mine?”

Ah, Dean knows _this_ type of Alpha.

“I am yours,” Dean says, trying to be as accommodating as possible to the finger outlining his stomach, then ghosting over his belt.

Dean’s had Alphas who get their kicks out of being possessive and dominating, and Dick seems to be ringing every bell. It’s far from the most egregious kink he’s seen, and _you’re whatever the customer needs to you to be,_ Alastair’s voice reminds Dean.

“I don’t like my Omegas talking to other Alphas,” Dick says, now pulling Dean’s belt loose from his jeans and not breaking eye contact with Dean.

Dean nods, deciding to slip into submissiveness.

“You’ll have to be punished, obviously,” Dick continues conversationally, looping Dean’s belt in his hands. Dean flicks his eyes down to it before meeting Dick’s eyes again.

“Obviously,” he returns, proud that he manages to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Dick hums in thought and crowds against Dean, and the back of his knees hit the bed. “Do you think I should have the Alpha punished?”

Dean’s eyes narrow, and something cold seeps into his blood. He thinks about Castiel, a stranger with blue eyes who _knows about Crowley and Alastair_ but really doesn’t know anything at all. He wants a guinea pig and turned Dean down but defended him with Ion. Then he thinks of the men stationed outside trailing him as Cas walks home.

He doesn’t know what Dick does professionally, but Alastair doesn’t dabble with powerless clientele. Dick has the resources to hurt anyone who mildly inconveniences him.

Dean won’t let this happen. He got into this so no one else would get hurt.

“No,” he says firmly, submissiveness be damned.

Dick snarled a smile. “Get on your hands and knees.”

 

Early the next morning, Dean gathers his money and clothes and quietly sneaks out of the room, resolved in where he needs to go.

\----

Castiel has two more drinks after Dean leaves before deciding he should probably start the trek back to his car near Gabriel’s apartment.

As he walks, he ruminates on Dean leaving with that man and Crowley dragging him away from Cas’ table. It seems inescapably clear now that Dean is involved in some form of prostitution, and the thought sits heavily in him. He could vaguely remember Dean leaving with another man a few months ago, when he was also surrounded by what could be handlers.

The prostitution of Omegas is not common, but far from unheard of. PSAs about Omega rights vacillate in and out of the public airwaves with news of prostitution ring busts every so often. Still, Cas can’t shake that Fergus Crowley doesn’t seem to fit in this world. He’s an associate in Alastair Cristoph’s development firm, one of the city council’s favorite partners. Cas remembered seeing him talking in low voices to others at a planning meeting about a month ago.

The thing nagging Castiel isn’t necessarily Crowley though. It’s Dean. He smelled as good as ever tonight, and Cas can’t help but smile to himself as he walks when he thinks about their short talk, or the way he sought him out. Do prostitutes do that, especially when it seems they already have a partner scheduled for the night? It seems highly unlikely that Dean has to try very hard to find willing participants. Just his scent alone is intoxicating.

Yet there was Crowley, bringing him away and sending him off with another Alpha. The situation leaves Castiel restless and confused.

Cas’ thoughts cloud his other senses and propel him to his car without taking much notice of the surroundings. As he climbs in, Cas realizes he can't decide if he's pleased or unbearably unhappy.

The next morning, Cas wakes up groggy and with a pounding headache that would feel like a hangover if it weren’t for the fact he had relatively little to drink. He lets himself sleep in a bit longer than usual and showers quickly, resigning himself to the bitter newsroom coffee.

On his way to the office, he takes note of Alastair’s name on signs off the highway advertising tracts of land for business development. Castiel snaps a photo of one sign while sitting in traffic and stares at it for the remainder of his commute.

When he finally pulls into the Kansas Tribune parking lot, a familiar black Impala stands out like a beacon to Castiel. Heart in his throat, Cas pulls in as close as he can to the classic car, a few spots down, and sees Dean leaning against the hood and watching the building like some unbearably attractive old movie star.

Cas gracelessly throws the car into park and clamors out, eyes never leaving Dean. The sounds of a car door closing draw Dean’s eyes to Castiel, and the unmistakable look of relief hits Dean’s face.

“Dean?” Cas says incredulously, walking over to him.

“Hey Cas,” Dean says, his voice light yet strained as he works himself into a straighter posture. His eyes pinch as he shuffles his weight.

Castiel realizes like a punch to the gut that it seems like Dean is in pain. Cas fights off the urge to step close and inspect him -- _"People have bubbles,"_  Gabriel's voice nags him -- buthe has no visible injuries. Still, Castiel’s blood is pumping quicker than usual and he tries to take calming breaths. He can smell Dean again.

“Are you okay? What are you doing here?”

“You, uh – you made it home alright last night, I see?” Dean stumbles. Castiel tilts his head in confusion, and Dean adds as an afterthought, “sorry to run out on you.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Cas says automatically, waiting for more information. They aren’t friends. They’re barely acquaintances, and yet here he is waiting at Cas’ workplace. It isn’t computing.

Dean smells off, wrong, and Cas detachedly wonders at the adrenaline rush he seems to be experiencing.

“Dean, are you hurt?”

Dean doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks at Cas for a long time, studying him with a look of gritty determination. It looks like he’s steeling himself.

“Fergus Crowley is an associate of Alastair Cristoph,” Dean says eventually with a small nod.

Castiel blinks. “Do you work with Fergus Crowley?” he phrases carefully.

Dean shifts his weight on his feet, obviously trying to alleviate some pain. The hair on the back of Cas’ neck stands on end.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Lois Lane,” Dean sighs, glancing at the newsroom over Cas’ shoulder. “I don’t have many friends.”

“My best friend is my brother,” Cas says with a shrug, confused at the change in topic. “He’s incorrigible, but his cookies are excellent.”

Dean’s face breaks into a small, surprised smile before he looks away, and Castiel’s train of thought splutters helplessly for a moment. Dean’s eyes wrinkle around the edges and his full lips curl and he looks years younger and so _beautiful_ that Cas feels something slip inside him and fall into his chest.

Dean looks back at him, determined look back but eyes light with humor.

“Luke Skywalker or Captain Kirk?” he asks seriously.

“Spock,” Cas says simply.

Dean grins. “Good. I’m more a Kirk guy myself.”

Castiel smiles back, but after a pause he prompts, “Dean?”

“I meant what I said last night, about how you should leave this murder stuff alone,” Dean says.

“I remember,” Cas nods.

“There are bad people out there, Cas.”

“Are you one of them?”

“I don’t feel like a bad person,” Dean sighs.

Cas sets his jaw. “Would you like some coffee, Dean?”

Dean’s grateful smile spreads like warm liquid through Castiel’s entire body, and Cas decides that he can be a bit late to work today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Obviously it's a slow burn, but also a slow building plot. Still looots more to come on Dean's past, Cas' past, and Dean and Cas.  
> birdoflastsummer.tumblr for Dean/Cas/Misha/Jensen photosets and fawning.


	5. Dying Like Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some discussion of Game of Thrones, but nothing spoiler-y.

Coffee with Dean is strange.

Dean won’t even hear of walking to the Starbucks just around the corner. He pointedly gets back in the car and Castiel follows suit. He takes a moment to admire the immaculately maintained car, and Dean turns up ‘Master of Puppets’ while pulling away from the newsroom.

Dean seems to further relax as he guides his car steadily through the streets. Dean’s scent is more concentrated here, pervading the car and pulling Castiel in. Dean himself smells a bit off, but Castiel isn’t familiar enough with the Omega to pinpoint what the harder edges of the scent mean. Cas finds himself breathing deeply, sinking into the leather seats and not quite able to pay attention to his surroundings.

Dean drives to a local coffee shop called Saints and Sinners in the historic area of downtown. Its brick exterior is chipping away, but the inside is brightly lit and well-worn chairs are arranged intermittently around small tables. College-age students sit reading or talking in quiet voices, and a pair of elderly men plays chess outside.

Dean marches up to the register and orders a red eye. Castiel approaches more cautiously, squinting up at the wall-to-ceiling blackboard with the menu scrawled in chalk. The coffee and pastry options are written on the image of a parchment, held up by a drawing of Tyrion from Game of Thrones. At this scale, the details of his armor, from the lion encrusted breastplate to the worn leather of his sleeves, is nothing short of extraordinary.

Cas is admiring the mural when he notices Dean looking at him expectantly. He tears his attention away from Tyrion and is prepared to choose a drink at random, but Dean instead follows his eye line and nods.

“Tyrion’s a badass, huh?” Dean says.

“I’ve been fond of him since he slapped Joffrey early in the first season,” Cas nods.

Dean grins. “Joffrey’s a dick.”

“He is dickish,” Cas says solemnly, stepping forward and ordering a Grande Caffè Americano.

Dean selects a table in the corner of the shop with armchairs and settles into his gingerly. Cas lowers himself slowly, watching Dean fight a grimace as he allows his body to relax into the furniture.

Dean catches Castiel watching him fight discomfort, and immediately his face falls blank.

“So I’m guessing coffee is like journalist Gatorade, right?” Dean asks.

“I’m more fond of it than I’d like to admit,” Cas sighs, taking a gulp from his cup, then eying Dean’s. “Red eye?”

“Didn’t get much sleep,” Dean explains lightly, not looking at Castiel.

Dean’s scent is slightly muffled by the aroma of brewing coffee, but it still smells wonderful, so fresh and bursting with lemons and oranges and everything sweet and tangy. Castiel almost lets a smile flit across his face, taking enjoyment from simply being able to smell anything pleasant for the first time in too long. He decides he probably should read up on Alphas regaining scent.

But Dean won’t stop shifting his weight around on the chairs, and something starts itching under Castiel’s skin.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, unable to stop himself once his Alpha instincts have honed in on it.

Dean stills again and sighs.

“I’m fine, Cas,” he says. “But I guess you’re wondering why I showed up today?”

Cas raises his eyebrows.

“I’m wondering a lot of things,” Cas says honestly.

“You gonna stop looking into this Zachariah crap if I tell you?” Dean asks, leaning across the table like he had the night before. Cas narrows his eyes.

“I doubt anything you can say will answer my questions about Zachariah’s murder.”

Dean looks stricken for a moment before barking out a laugh, eyes wrinkling and eyes brightening good-naturedly. The unusual reaction is lost on Castiel as he allows himself a moment to contemplate how handsome Dean is. The light catches and Cas absurdly thinks that he hadn’t realized any _real person_ could have eyes that green. It’s unfair, really.

“You never did explain what you were doing outside his house,” Cas says, hating himself a little bit for making Dean’s smile fade away but trying to regain his footing in the face of... such a beautiful face.

Dean just sighs and takes a generous gulp of his drink.

“What do I need to do to get you to leave this alone?” Dean asks, looking up at Cas through his lashes with a small smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Cas’ eyes widen. Images of Dean leaving Perdition with various men, and the sounds of his smooth voice offering to buy Castiel a drink flash through his mind so rapidly it hurts. Could he mean…

“No no, not like that!” Dean immediately amends, obviously catching onto Cas’ thoughts and dismissing them before they can take shape. “I, uh, kinda just want to be friends?”

“Why do you want to be friends with me?” Cas asks, confused and suspicious.

“You think Joffrey’s a dick, you obviously have good taste.”

“I hardly think a dislike of Joffrey is a basis for friendship, and you didn’t know my opinions on the matter before you showed up to my workplace this morning,” Castiel presses, though he can’t help but feel amused.

“You like guinea pigs,” Dean shots back.

“You want to be friends with me because I like guinea pigs?”

“Liking guinea pigs is infallible proof of being a good person,” Dean says, smacking his hand on the table defiantly. Then he grins like he knows he’s too adorable for Castiel to keep this up.

He’s basically right, and Cas can't find it in himself to question further.

 

Dean and Cas agree to meet for coffee once a week over the next month, though it ends up being almost every day.

Sometimes Dean is bright-eyed and loud, excited when he finds out that Castiel has read all the Game of Thrones novels and earnestly demanding more details while trying to maintain that only the nerds read the books.

(“ _How could you_ not _like the skeleton army?”_ Dean demands one day, eyes wide and body tense with purpose and indignation.

They’re not in the books, they serve no purpose–” Cas argues back hotly.

“Is being badass not a purpose?”)

Other days, he’s sullen and his scent is distressingly far off. Cas treats him the way he’d want to be treated and just lets him stew, which Dean always seems silently grateful for at their next meet up. On those days that Dean turns up squirming in his seat, Cas buys him the small hand-held pies that Saints and Sinners sells, which took Cas all of about 5 minutes to realize is the main reason Dean loves the place so much.

They come to a tenuous, mostly untalked about treaty about how to act. Topics of conversation Dean does not contribute to include Crowley, Zachariah, Alastair and Dean’s ‘job.’ It bothers Castiel sometimes, especially when he spends the remainder of his workday pouring over tax records for the Sandover development firm, headed up by Alastair.

Dean looks at Castiel with a forced air of casualness when Cas lightly mentions that he saw a legal notice for some land being purchased over by the highway by Alastair's firm. Dean doesn’t react, but it’s obvious to Castiel that he’s filing it away. It becomes clear that Dean isn't going to crack and open up about what he knows, if anything, but Cas can't refrain from trying. And he can't shake the feeling that Dean somehow needs the information.

Cas knows he should be pressing harder. For all the known quirks of Dean, the love of pie and Game of Thrones and distinctly un-Omega brashness, everything else is a complete unknown. And yet he selfishly doesn’t want to lose this or apply too much pressure to this vague friendship. He genuinely enjoys Dean’s company, and he relishes the scent of _Dean_ that clings to his clothing when he returns to work.

When he’s not with Dean, he tries reading up on the circumstances in which Alphas lose and regain scents. He already knows what causes the loss – the rejection of a mate, or the loss of a mate.

The science behind regaining scent is more inconsistent, with articles penned more than a few years ago differing dramatically from recent ones. Cas decides to walk to a local Barnes & Noble and fork over $12.50 for one of the sleek, new Alpha/Omega magazines.

He opens to an article called _Beyond The Chemicals_ authored by a trio of A/B/O professors and reads:

 

> ‘ _New research indicates what some Alphas have already been lucky enough to find: that there is the chance for compatible scent after experiencing Loss, here meaning death or denial of a mate. Some subjects reported they went for as many as seven years between Loss and rediscovery, while others reported regaining it as soon as eight months later._
> 
> _‘It has been reported that the regaining of scent can be experienced after the previous mate dies or finds a new mate, freeing the rejected from his or her ties to that Omega or Beta, (or, less likely, another Alpha.) However, this is inconsistent and ultimately untrue: the death of a true mate is not enough to liberate Loss, and it is more statistically likely to see the rejected mate experience a sharper downturn in scenting abilities once their mate finds another partner._
> 
> _What is consistent across all experiences is that scent can be regained by finding a potential mate with a more compatible scent than the one who caused Loss. While this is good news for some, it is dependent on whether the Alpha can find a mate even more compatible than the former…'_

Castiel stops reading, worried and alarmed and ultimately annoyed at the wasted $12.50 on his measly reporter salary.

 

\----

Dean comes to cherish the hours stolen in Saints and Sinners, which is exactly what he was hoping wouldn’t happen.

It was all supposed to be very simple. Dean needed to make sure Cas was okay after the night with Dick, unsure of how idle the threat was and outrageously disturbed by it. Not because the threat was outrageous – Dean’s convinced most Alphas have knots bigger than their brains – but because of how outrageously upset he felt at the thought of them hurting Cas.

The dude is basically a puppy, he reasons to himself.

The thought outrages him even more now that he more or less knows the guy. He knows Cas’ penchant for tilting his head, or the way he arches his lips up with he says the letter ‘h’ sometimes, or the way his hair curls around his temple.

Or the way that he lights up when talking about science fiction, or the latest city council drama that Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him that no one really cares about. Dean particularly likes the way his brow furrows in journalistic righteousness when he's denied the information he's looking for.

("What part of the Kansas Open Records Act don't these people understand, Dean?" Cas asks, slightly wild-eyed with passion over lunch one humid Tuesday, rescheduled from a morning meet-up after Cas spent half the night sitting outside council chambers waiting for an executive session to end.

"Probably all of it, Cas," Dean settles.

"Well that's ridiculous," Cas huffs, mostly to himself, frowning deeply at his coffee.

Dean gives him half the pie he was working though, and Cas seems to understand the magnitude of the gesture, if the way the tension melts off him is anything to go by. Dean tries not to feel warmed by the reaction.)

Still, Dean accomplished what he wanted. He made sure Castiel was ok, and he befriended him. Alastair was too good for some reporter – even a really dedicated, _ridiculously attractive_ reporter – to discover his secret. This was as close as Dean had seen someone get though. Cas knows that Zachariah met with Alastair regularly, identified Crowley and knew who he was and knows that Crowley is involved in Dean's work.

So he closed in and got to know this man who could be a threat. Because Dean isn't done yet.

But when Dean settles into an armchair at Saints and Sinners after a night with a particularly abusive Alpha, he finds a bit too much comfort in Cas’ fresh, minty scent that he just wants to bathe in until he feels clean again.

The Alphas seem to be worse lately. Worse off, Dean can’t seem to fake it as well as he did before. Sure, he moans encouragingly and knows what to do, but his _body_ doesn’t seem to be cooperating anymore. He needs a break.

Dean first noticed it with Dick, whose scent was so vile that Dean just assumed he was really bad news. The next day he was hurting, sure. But even lower-level douchebags smelled unbearable now, and taking a knot had started to feel like being ripped in half. Dean started buying lube to help make sure he was liberally prepped before heading to Perdition, because someone had apparently turned off his Omega faucet.

Crowley noticed Dean was off his game, but never said anything, and didn’t bring up Dean’s frequent trips to Saints and Sinners. The two of them were considering Dean’s next target, and Dean figured Crowley was giving him some extra air to get his head clear.

Dean did need extra air, and what he found was most relaxing was a certain bedhead and pair of bright blue eyes staring at him.

“Hypothetical question,” Dean poses one day, leaning across the table, eyes fixed on Cas'. “You’re sneaking into somewhere, and your code with your partner is to bark like a dog if you find trouble, and --”

“That’s stupid,” Castiel cuts in dismissively, rolling his eyes. “If I need help, I’m going to yell _help._ ”

Dean sits in silence for a moment then barks out a laugh. Cas rarely laughs as openly, but he grins and it makes Dean feel oddly light.

Yeah, Dean tells himself, this probably isn’t a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> Title's a reference to one of my favorite Tyrion quotes: "Monsters are dangerous beasts, and just now kings seem to be dying like flies."  
> Reference to an Arya-Gendry conversation, too.
> 
> birdoflastsummer.tumblr for ramblings and Dean/Cas hellatus coping methods.


	6. Biology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG HUGE GIANT WARNING for a very, very bad sex experience. Not rape, but explicit Dean/customer (not Castiel). If you want to skip it, please don't read the middle (second) section of the update.

“Better cool it, Romeo,” Crowley offers, wrinkling his nose distastefully as Dean enthusiastically digs into a Denny’s pancake.

Dean frowns. “R’meo?” he says in mid-chew.

“Running off to meet some Alpha in a coffee shop like you two are in a book club,” Crowley says.

Dean had just finished asking Crowley to cover for him returning late after tonight’s john. He didn’t need to explain where he was going anymore. Crowley knew, though no one else did. It was vitally important no one else knew.

He hadn’t seen Castiel for three days and he was sort of _…antsy_ , which wasn’t good. He’s tried to avoid getting used to good things, but he’d taken a liking to escaping his shithole life while hanging out with Cas and just… _talking._ It was nice, actually.

“We’re not exactly reciting poetry to each other,” Dean says once he’s swallowed his pancake.

Crowley’s eyes practically roll out of his head.

“Are you sleeping with him?” Crowley asks.

“No!” Dean exclaims immediately.

“Are you _planning_ on sleeping with him?” he presses.

“I just – all I wanted to do was make sure he was okay,” Dean says, voice faltering with the absurdity of how it sounds. “Dick or one of Dick’s dicks saw me talking to him in Perdition, and threatened him.”

“So by all means, let’s set up regular brunch with him,” Crowley says, toasting Dean with his muffin and sitting back in his chair.

Crowley’s got a point, though Dean hates to admit it. If Dick becomes a semi-regular thing, as it very well could, then he shouldn’t be seen talking to Cas. He shouldn’t be seen talking to anyone, really. Most of Alastair’s Omegas are not allowed to be out, but Dean’s the exception because he’s the favorite. Someone could report what he’s doing back to Alastair though.

Dean would be punished, sure, but so would Cas.

“I’ll cut back,” Dean muttered.

“Good,” Crowley says briskly, like they arrived at a business decision. “You know what will happen if you get too… _attached.”_

Dean's eyes narrow.

“You sleep around with Alphas, and you have to be able to sell _liking it,”_ Crowley enunciates. Then he sighs theatrically as if he’s working with children.  “Now let’s get back in the car so we can talk a bit more privately about who’s going to be making your acquaintance tonight.”

 

Edgar smells like oil.

Not the kind that reminds Dean of Baby and the open road. The heavy kind that seeps into the air, suffocates and can catch fire.

At least part of the problem is the fact that Edgar arranged to use one of Alastair’s holding facilities, an abandoned-looking building near the highway purchased and maintained under some subsidiary company Alastair’s development firm owns.

The basement is full of once-storage units that are now basically full-service torture chambers for Alastair’s Omegas. Locked rooms with various holding mechanisms, toys and surfaces to give the user any kind of experience they want.

Edgar choose one of the more basic sets: a bed, with some rope and gagging cloth sitting neatly next to it on a nightstand with lube.

Dean doesn’t often meet with the clientele who don’t have a better place to get their jollies, but he’s occasionally found himself in here. He doesn’t remember it smelling quite as repulsive though. This alone makes him lightheaded, a cocktail of distressed Omega slick and Alpha come ruminating in the muggy underground rooms. A cough catches in his throat and his eyes water and he wonders how he’s going to fake his way through this one.

What he can’t smell is almost worse: Dean had heard this is where Alastair sends the bad Omegas. The ones, like Atropose, who can’t do the job anymore. The ones who need to be punished, or kept quiet about their days in the ring when those days are unceremoniously over.

“Looks like Alastair gave me the pretty one,” Edgar says, rounding on Dean once the door to the room is secure.

Dean looks at him through his eyelashes, furiously stomping down the urge to vomit. Seriously, how can anyone stand to be in this room when it smells like this?

“I’m all yours,” he purrs.

Edgar rushes at him and smashes his mouth to Dean’s, teeth bumping and tongue furiously pushing into Dean’s mouth. He kisses back on reflex, trying to match Edgar’s enthusiasm, though his stomach feels weak and his head feels light.

A hand snakes around Dean’s shoulders and runs through his hair, while the other grabs his ass and hauls Dean closer until he’s pressed flush against Edgar. His overly sensitive stomach and head lurch at the rough motion, and he can’t quite help a small whimper from escaping into Edgar’s mouth. It only seems to encourage him though, because the hand on his ass moves down and curls in the crevice between his legs as the hand in his hair jerks his head back, breaking the kiss and exposing his neck.

“Such a pretty Omega,” Edgar groans, licking Dean’s neck.

Dean stares up at the ceiling and sets his jaw against the nausea tingling in his skull. He tries to take deep, steadying breaths while Edgar is distracted, unbuttoning and nipping at Dean’s collarbones and torso. _Focus focus focus_ Dean chants desperately, but his vision is swimming. He’s vaguely aware of Edgar lapping at one of his nipples, then he bites down way too hard and the room tilts dangerously.

He gasps for air, but it’s thick and there doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the breath. All he’s breathing is the putrid, thick scent of oil, and he doesn’t want to breathe that in, he doesn’t want it. He can feel it settling like tar in his lungs and digging into him and he feels so thoroughly contaminated for being here, for doing this that it feels like something is scratching at the inside of brains.

Dean resurfaces when he senses Edgar crouched down, unbuttoning Dean’s jeans. Edgar presses his face against Dean’s crotch through the layers, and through his _whatever this is_ episode _,_ Dean has the sense to feel panicked: he is utterlysoft. Thousands of years of evolutionary biology dictating that Omegas get hard and wet under the attention of Alphas, and Dean can’t muster up a thing.

Not good.

Desperate to give himself time, he forces his arms to move to Edgar’s shoulders and haul him away from the danger zone. Edgar looks up with challenging eyes, probably thinking the Omega whore he paid for is playing hard to get. He pulls Edgar up to full height and pulls off his shirt, discarding it on the floor with Dean’s. He runs his hands up and down appreciably, eyes down to keep him from seeing how glazed over they probably look.

“Let me play with you first,” Dean mutters. He gets the words right but he doesn’t have the mental faculties to get the tone right. It doesn’t seem to matter though, because Edgar’s breath hitches when Dean cups his dick through his jeans.

Dean unbuttons his jeans and pulls the zipper down, then lowers himself to his knees. His arms are weak and shaking, just like the rest of him, but he slowly removes Edgar’s pants and boxers in one pull. The movement unleashes a torrent of scents onto Dean, who nearly doubles over as it hits with almost a physical force. He seals his lips closed and breaths out long, then takes a shaky breath in through his mouth.

Edgar is backing up and laying down on the bed, and Dean hastily follows, feeling ill.

This has never happened before. _Why is this happening_? He’s slept with _the worst_ people, had people do far worse things to him then what Edgar’s got planned, and Dean’s been solid. He’s moaned along and helped the Alphas get what they want, but this has never happened.

He breathes deeply through his mouth, head spinning, before settling over Edgar’s dick, already pearling with pre-come at the tip. Dean sticks out his tongue and experimentally licks it off, and it tastes _fucking wretched._

Dean knows what his next move would be – he’d make a show of swallowing it with a moan, which he would extend as he swallowed down the Alpha’s dick. But instead, the come sits awkwardly on his tongue and he deposits it onto his shaft, using it to slick him up. It seems to work: Edgar throws his head back onto the bed. Dean’s stomach clenches and he dips his head down over the cock, keeping his tongue off the head and slit at the top where that awful taste is coming from. He works him over, lathering him up as well as he can and using another hand to help stroke the shaft and spread the wetness over him. He is forced to breathe through his nose, and the scent is bowling him over.

Dean peels off, barely avoiding the urge to take a gasping breath as he distances his head from the fumes that seem to be coming off the Alpha. He sees the dick glistening, but he knows that won’t be enough. He hastily grabs the bottle of lube and manages to stroke it on a couple times before Edgar reaches up and pulls Dean down so he’s laying on his stomach, with Edgar settling over him.

“So ready to fuck you,” he whispers in Dean’s ear, but Dean hardly hears him. The world momentarily spun with the unexpected movement, and his face is in the sheets that Edgar was just clutching onto and he can practically _smell_ where they’ve been, who has been fucked ruthlessly by even more ruthless Alphas on these sheets. A choked noise comes out of Dean and Edgar moans.

It occurs to Dean that it’s so fucking messed up that the sounds of distress and pleasure can be so similar.

Still, Edgar is reaching down and spreading Dean’s legs and again Dean realizes that his body is not responding. He’s dry _._ Like, Sahara dry. Completely unprepared. Not that Dean is _ever_ panting with need over the douchebags that he sleeps with, but he knows how to control his body. He’s been ready. But he’s never felt so physically ill before, and his body is not having it.

When Edgar shoves in, hopefully not knowing how the Omega’s body is not wet for him, Dean blacks out for a moment. His whole body feels like it’s on fire and he gasps loudly. Edgar bottoms out and moans loudly, rotating his hips to feel Dean around him. Dean pushes his face in the sheets and squeezes his eyes shut, sure he’s going to be sick.

He can’t do anything to help it along. He can’t fake it this time. Edgar pushes into him again and again and groans and grunts and whispers about how _good Dean takes it_ , and Dean can hear white noise pushing in around him. He tries focusing on the sheets, following the stripes with his eyes until they crease over. It ends up just making him dizzy. Finally, Edgar gasps and Dean feels his come pulse into him, the first sign of any wetness in that area this entire time.

With that, Edgar pulls out and hovers over Dean before reaching into the nightstand. Dean only hears the movements, feels the bed shift, because his body is locked into place. Then he feels something brush against his entrance again.

“To keep you wet for me,” Edgar whispers, and a plug is inserted.

Dean closes his eyes so hard he sees stars, and focuses on mapping out constellations in them as he hears Edgar move off him, pull on his clothes and leave the room. Dean manages to wait about 30 seconds, to be sure he’s gone, before he throws himself from the bed and violently throws up in the corner of the room.

He’s doubled over, taking half-breaths between bouts of vomiting, when he realizes his eyes are wet. He straightens and feels the plug sit uncomfortably in his sore ass, so he angrily pulls it out, ignoring the pain, and throws it as hard as he can across the room. Still panting from vomiting, his eyes fall to the bed, and he grasps the sheets and pulls them violently from the mattress and throws them across the room too. The lube, still sitting uselessly on the nightstand, hits the wall and splatters before falling to the floor.

Dean is gasping, so fucking angry with everything in his god damned stupid life, and sees the roll of money that Edgar left on the ground. He runs over and kicks it into the door, which doesn’t do a thing to make him feel better, so he hauls around and throws his fist into the wall. The drywall gives and Dean’s hand crashes through. Pain blossoms in his hand but Dean doesn’t care, pulling out his fist and punching it again to make the hole bigger.

Now it really hurts, and he pulls his hand out to inspect the damage. His knuckles are raw and he suspects at least two of the deeper cuts will require stitches. He walks over and tries the door, but of course it’s locked. He doesn’t know what time it is, but figures it can’t be after 2 a.m. Crowley won’t be here until at least 8. He would try to rest, maybe even sleep, but he knows what’s going to play out in his dream: A deep voice and a small one, a creaking door, rotting apples.

He moves to a corner and crouches down, pulling his knees up and putting his head down. He’s so fucked.

 

Crowley doesn’t say a word when he sees Dean stalking toward him. He just holds out the keys to the Impala and gets in the passenger seat, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says, voice low, when they’re both in the car.

“I don’t care,” Crowley says, though his voice sounds resigned. “It’s going to get back to Alastair. Let me do some damage control.”

“Why don’t you smile and let the next Alpha fuck you? How’s that for damage control,” Dean says through gritted teeth. His undamaged hand is white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“What happened?” Crowley asks.

“Nothing happened,” Dean mutters, feeling anger seeping into his bones again. “ _Nothing._ I didn’t react. I didn’t – um, well…”

“Was he lubricated then?” Crowley pushed forward clinically. Dean’s anger sharpens uselessly for a moment, knowing full well that Crowley only cares because if Dean is injured he may have to delay the next john.

“Yes, I’m not an idiot.”

“I beg to differ,” Crowley replies, settling further into his seat. “Did you feel nauseous? Overly sensitive to smell?”

Dean’s fixed glare doesn’t change, and he doesn’t respond. Crowley sighs.

“Do you know why we lock the Omegas up, Dean?” He sounds almost thoughtful.

Dread leaks through his wall of adrenalin, into the parts of Dean’s body that aren’t already fried, and pools in his stomach.

“Because that way they never acclimate,” Crowley continues. “Their bodies never revolt against them, or learn to like anything in particular. It’s dangerous in this line of work.”

Dean knows what Crowley means. He had guessed it early on with Edgar, but didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to give it a name or give the thought shape.

“Castiel smells good?” Crowley asks, unnecessarily. Dean turns to glare at Crowley, who simply nods in acknowledgment. “You do see why that’s the problem, don’t you? As long as your body knows what it wants, it can’t respond to these other Alphas. In fact, it’s going to rile against it.”

“Cas and I are just friends though,” Dean says, voice small and frustrated and _angry_ because he knows what this means.

“Your biology doesn’t give a damn,” Crowley shoots back. “You know what you have to do?”

Dean didn’t think he could feel any worse, but he was wrong.

 

\----

 

Dean is always on time to Sunday morning coffee. Castiel knows this and accepts this as fact. But 8 a.m. passes, and then 8:15 rolls around, and Dean is still not there.

Cas decides to go ahead and order without him. He had been looking forward to his coffee order this morning, arriving extra early at Saints and Sinners to request the barista draw an Enterprise with the caramel. He wanted to surprise Dean, who wouldn’t hear him request it in his order, knowing how much the two of them loved Star Trek.

“No Enterprise then?” asks the barista, a teenager named Krissy.

“No Enterprise,” Castiel confirms.

He sits at his and Dean’s usual table with his coffee, caramel messy lines across the frothing top, until 8:50 rolls around and he decides there’s no point in waiting anymore.

He feels irrationally disappointed and worried, and he tries to separate himself from the feelings in order to scrutinize them. What ground does he have to stand on for these feelings? Dean is certainly entitled to miss coffee. Dean is the last person on Earth without a cell phone so he couldn’t text or call him to let him know.

The hurt, however irrational, sits heavily in Cas’ gut as he drives home. He refuses to speculate on why Dean couldn't show up, studiously pushing it from his mind and practicing naming off all the different Game of Thrones characters in order of family tree.

When he pulls up to his apartment complex, he notices a sleek black Impala in the parking lot. Cas' heart in this throat, he jumps from his car and walks over to the car. When he gets close, he doesn’t see Dean in the driver seat. Instead, a man wearing a suit jacket and balding slightly sits looking supremely bored. It's only then that he realizes Dean doesn't know where Cas lives. When the man meets Castiel’s eyes, he turns off the car and steps out.

“Castiel?” he asks, British accent clipped and businesslike.

“Yes?” Cas asks, squaring his shoulders and glaring. He recognizes Fergus Crowley immediately, both from Perdition and from his business involvement.

Castiel immediately feels foolish. In all his worrying, he hadn’t considered that Dean could be in trouble. Well, more like he hadn’t allowed himself to consider that. It was practically an unbearable thought given how Castiel felt so helpless against the invisible demons in Dean’s life.

“I’m here because Dean sent me,” Crowley says, sounding supremely annoyed. “He wants you to know he’s fine, but he can’t go to coffee anymore.”

“Why?” Cas asks immediately, voice low and dangerous and accusatory.

Something almost unrecognizable starts pumping through his veins. It feels incredibly Alpha-like, like posturing and protective and _something is wrong with Dean._ He hasn’t felt anything like it in a long time.

“Because he can’t,” Crowley returns evenly.

“Where is Dean?” he growls.

“He’s safe,” Crowley rolls his eyes. “He’s safe and sound where he’s supposed to be, which, as I’m sure you know, isn’t at coffee shops with you.”

“Did Dean decide this?” Cas presses.

“He agreed to it,” Crowley replies.

Castiel spends his days as a reporter wading through bullshit and using good judgment to determine what is and isn’t credible. He thinks he has a good sense of when someone is telling the truth, and is surprised to see that Crowley appears to be giving an honest answer.

Dean agreed to it.

“It’s better this way,” Crowley wraps up, hand on the door to the Impala. “For both of you.”

Castiel has so many half-formed questions flying around in his head, but he can’t seem to voice any of them before Crowley has disappeared back inside the car – _Dean’s car,_ Castiel realizes with a crushing pang – and pulls away.

Cas stands there for a long time, staring at the spot where the Impala was. His mind plays games on him as the ghost of Dean’s perfect scent seem to linger just out of grasp.

Dean might have agreed to it, but Castiel didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a rough one for me to write. I apologize it took so long. Updates will come more frequently now.  
> birdoflastsummer.tumblr


	7. Belts and Crepes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another not nice chapter. Please see tags above.

The first few weeks after breaking contact with Cas were, without doubt, the worst.

Nothing is as bad as the gut-punching sickness he felt with Edgar, but the discomfort lingers in smaller, more grating ways. A persistent headache nags Dean night and day, and the stronger scents of Alphas still make him lightheaded and dizzy. He feels moody and irritable, though he’s not sure he can chalk that up to whatever was going biologically haywire.

The nightmares become more frequent. Dean wakes up shivering more times than not, and he considers buying a thermometer for the shack, because there’s no way he doesn’t have a fever. But it recedes quickly enough each time, so Dean pushes it away from his mind whenever he can.

When he can’t, white-hot anger courses through his veins and he thinks to himself, _stupid Omega biology_. Dean didn’t ask for this. _Castiel_ didn’t ask for this, but now apparently Dean’s Omega radio tunes everything else out completely.

Dean finds the thought of Cas to be almost unbearable – he’s sad about cutting it off, sure, but he finds he’s angry when the stupid blue eyes flicker across his mind. Who gave him the right to just come in and mess with Dean’s head? He didn’t even _like_ Dean – that much had been perfectly clear every time Dean had been bold enough to come on to him. They might’ve hung out for a while, and it might’ve been the closest to normal Dean’s felt in years, but he messed Dean up.

And how pathetic is that? Someone’s nice to him and suddenly Dean can’t even smell another Alpha without throwing up?

Most importantly, though, it’s messing up the job.

Alastair has stopped giving him johns. Dean has known the man for 15 years, watched as his skin wrinkled and waxes, but he can’t quite place the look in his eyes when he first tells Dean he’s not on for the night.

He knows he should feel grateful. Dean’s ass felt so sore he didn’t really move for two days after getting back to the shack after Edgar. He hadn’t been prepped, wasn’t ready at all for the pounding abuse, and crippling pain electrified his insides when he shifted around too much. The pain receded in about a week, the worst of his hand injuries healed over and Dean felt reasonably confident at that point he could give a good show and walk away unscathed. But Alastair offered him nothing, shut him down and stopped acknowledging his presence in the house most of the time. Panic follows Dean around because he _needs_ to be doing his job. That’s the deal, and he could never live with himself if Alastair backs out…

So Dean plans. He won’t let his mind go idle, won’t let what he can’t control stop him from doing the things he can. The distraction is good for him, and for stretches – sometimes hours – Dean forgets everything. Forgets that he’s apparently broken at doing the only things he’s good for. Forgets that apparently Cas smells so good he put Dean out of commission. Forgets everything, except killing the next Alpha who’s abused and used Omegas in Alastair’s control. Not employment. Control.

“I guess it’d be too obvious to do Edgar,” Dean mumbles under his breath, head buried in the trunk of the Impala while helping Crowley move groceries and boxes of paperwork into the shack. It was only in stolen moments like this that they could talk, now that Dean wasn’t leaving the shack to meet with johns.

“You’re stupider than you look if you even thought that option’s on the table,” Crowley bites back as he leans in to grab onto a handle of a plastic bag.

“Well you gotta give me something to do here, man! I’m going crazy,” Dean hisses, almost losing control of his volume as he straightens and balances two boxes in his hands.

Crowley snaps the trunk closed pointedly, and Dean startles in alarm for his Baby. Dean turns burning eyes on Crowley, who is fixing him with a similarly heated glare.

“Consider what you are asking me to do,” Crowley rumbles. “This is your fault, Dean. _Deal with it_.”

 

Almost two months after Edgar, Dean walks into the kitchen, shoulders set. It’s a Friday night, which is usually one of the most active. He’s gotten dressed, pulled on his shoes, showered and shaved. Dean finds Alastair sitting at the kitchen table, alone, pouring over paperwork. He asks what the plan is for the night.

“Stay here, and stay in the bedroom,” Alastair replies, voice smooth, robotic even. He doesn’t even look up at Dean.

“I can work,” Dean offers explicitly.

“Not until I say you can,” Alastair replies.

“How can I prove it to you?” He does not sound desperate.

Still not looking at Dean, Alastair lets the silence linger in the air for a moment.

“Stay here, and stay in the bedroom,” he repeats, slower, drawing out each syllable in his slithery, reptilian voice. It’s dangerous and definite, and Dean has no idea what is coming.

 

\----

 

“Crepe?”

Castiel eyes burn holes in the pastry, then flick up to his brother.

“No.”

“Come on! I’ve been slaving away all evening to make a nice meal for you!” Gabriel pouts dramatically, now actually wafting the scent toward Castiel, who may or may not be slouched between the cushions in the middle of Gabriel’s couch.

“No.”

“I am so underappreciated,” Gabriel tuts, wiping his hand on his apron.

Castiel silently appreciates Gabriel’s continued efforts to bring him out of his spiral, but Cas can wallow with the best of them.

It seemed like his life had hit a collective wall. He had no leads on Alastair, or Crowley, or Zachariah’s death. He hadn’t so much as laid eyes on Dean, even though he couldn’t resist popping by Perdition once or twice to grab a beer and perhaps look around at the patronage, who were all so thoroughly, devastatingly not-Dean.

He respected Dean’s wish to cut it off. He took it personally, but also seriously. He knows Dean’s running in circles he can’t even imagine, and given the dramatics of the break off, it must’ve been serious.

It doesn’t make Castiel feel better though, and it doesn’t help that everything’s dried up. Investigators aren’t talking. He now doesn’t have Dean to talk to about what he finds. Even though Dean never said anything out loud when Cas talked about Alastair or Crowley, Cas could always recognize the interest behind his eyes, and grasped on to it like a life raft before it disappeared entirely.

Now he’s back to spending Friday nights with his brother, watching old Star Trek shows and, again, wallowing.

Gabriel wanders back over and collapses onto the couch next to Cas, arms sprawled out and head tilted over the back of the edge toward the ceiling. He looks a bit like someone deflated him.

“Do we need to have a moment?” Gabriel asks quietly.

Castiel has to give him credit. It’s about two months since his brother wordlessly accepted Cas’ reappearance. He’s is ashamed to say his attentiveness to his brother had waned when he was hanging out with Dean and tasting the ecstasy that comes with chasing a good story. Also the ecstasy of Dean’s scent. It was perfect, and he hasn’t smelled anything since he last saw Dean. At least, he hasn’t smelled anything that doesn’t make him hold his breath politely.

“No,” Cas says quietly, resolutely.

“You’re going to ‘no’ me to death,” Gabriel sighs, then belatedly his head tilts in Cas’ direction to gauge his reaction. He amends, “sorry. Didn’t mean it. You know what I mean.”

“I do, and you don’t need to apologize,” Castiel says soothingly, unfazed.

Gabriel’s arches his back into sitting up straight and turns to Castiel.

“I think you should talk about it,” Gabriel says, voice uncharacteristically void of sarcasm and enthusiasm.

Cas turns his head toward him fully.

“What would you like me to say?” he asks honestly.

“Whatever you need to say! I’m your brother, you should be able to tell me things when they’re bothering you!” Gabe says, voice sincere and eyes pleading.

Cas presses his own eyes closed and shakes his head.

“Whatever you think is bothering me, you’re wrong,” Cas sighs.

“Prove it,” Gabe challenges. “Lay it on me.”

Castiel’s eyes open and he looks at his brother. His mind whirls.

_There’s this guy… you know him. Remember the man from Perdition you’d heard was a prostitute? He is. He’s beautiful. And he knows people who are definitely involved in something involving murder. He’s also a dork. We were friends. At least I thought we were. We had to have been. But now we’re definitely not. And that, for some reason, makes me not want your crepe._

Nope. None of that is coming out of his mouth.

He realizes it’d be easier to talk about what Gabe thinks is upsetting him, but that uncomfortable realization just makes him want to sink further into the couch.

“I can’t,” Cas just says honestly. Gabriel’s eyes soften on Castiel.

“I worry about you, bro,” Gabe says.

“You don’t need to,” Cas says, and now it’s his head falling over the back of the couch and staring up at the speckled ceiling. “I live the most boring life ever.”

 

\----

 

Dean resigned himself, literally and emotionally, to Alastair’s bedroom after their brief talk. He wouldn’t be going out tonight. He’s still being punished for not performing with Edgar. He’s still broken and untrusted and trapped.

There’s nothing in the room but a bed, nightstand and a locked armoire. Alastair doesn’t actually live here, not like Dean, so he has no use keeping anything here besides what he can’t keep at his real home.

Dean hasn’t been in here in a while though. Alastair had mostly stopped looking at him, which means he’s stopped fucking him, too. It wasn’t difficult to feel relieved over this, but Dean also knows better, is still restless over it. He knows nothing is _ever_ good; everything is always a bigger game that will turn out badly for him. He may not have to deal with being fucked every night, but when the other shoe drops, it’ll come down on his throat.

He starts pacing, looking around. This room, the master bedroom in what was probably a beautiful house at some point, had been mostly undamaged in the fire except the black soot smeared around the window. It looked like someone smeared a drawing and Dean had sometimes stared at it, depending on what his view was during his predicaments inside the bedroom.

Near the window sits the armoire. Dean can tell by the dark mahogany of the wood that this was one of the few pieces of furniture in the home that wasn’t adopted from the former owners. Dean liked to believe the people who lived here before were good people, hard workers, with an apple pie life, because most of their furniture came in sets and matched. At least they did before the fire.

Eventually Dean sits on the bed. He probably can’t go to sleep, but he’s going to go insane waiting. He looks down at his watch. Only about an hour has passed from his talk with Alastair. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have to wait, or what, if anything, he’s waiting for. Just to be out of the way until he hears Alastair’s car pull away? Until Alastair finally talks to him?

He’s so sick of waiting. More than this wait, he’s waiting for… what’s next. Is he going to be thrown in the cells Alastair keeps his other Omegas in? What is he going to do to Dean’s family? – if he hasn’t done it already?

He scotches up the bed to rest against the headboard, crossing his arms across his chest, which feels bizarre. He hates this bed. He hates this room. But here he is, the picture of relaxation. He closes his eyes, just to rest them, just to pass the time.

_I hope Sammy is okay somewhere._

_I hope dad is okay somewhere._

_I hope Cas is okay._

His chest constricts when he realizes what he’s thinking about, and tries to rally against it. _Think of something else._

Dean casts around, but there are ghosts everywhere. All his memories are ghosts. He takes a strangled breath.

Just then, the door opens to the bedroom. Dean’s eyes fly open and he startles out of his thoughts, arms automatically moving to brace his sides on the bed, ready to move with a word. Alastair walks in slowly, shoes thudding against the floor loudly in the quiet house.

“You smelled scared,” Alastair comments casually, now hovering in the space between the door and the foot of the bed and glaring down at a cuticle. Dean’s whole body is pulled tout, feeling out of place sprawled on Alastair’s bed – _I didn’t even take my shoes off,_ Dean thinks absurdly – but not wanting to move.

“You still smell scared,” he concludes, dropping his hand and hitting Dean with the full force of his gaze.

“I –– uhh…” Dean starts, starting to move his legs to get off the bed, but Alastair’s eyes flash.

“Don’t move.”

Dean falls still immediately.

“Why were you scared?” Alastair asks, moving around the bed, approaching Dean, who is still frozen, shoulders arched. He sounds genuinely curious.

“I…I was just thinking,” Dean replies.

Alastair is now standing next to Dean, a tall shape casting Dean in shadow, and he returns to scrutinizing his cuticle.

“What were you thinking about?”

His voice is so light. Like a sense memory, Dean is wrenched back to a familiar terror that he first felt 15 years ago. When he first met Alastair.

He was 12, and Dean thought it sounded like he was talking to a spooked animal. Now Dean knows that’s true, but in a different context. Alastair’s not afraid of the animal darting away. It’s the tone he uses when he knows he’s won. When the animal can’t run.

“About not working,” Dean decides to answer, his heart pounding heavily.

Alastair hums with fascination.

“Really?” he frowns. “What about it, Dean?”

He flicks at the cuticle. Dean draws a long breath.

“I want to work again. I want to do my job.”

Alastair’s hand drops. He glares at Dean, and Dean can tell the conversation is over.

“You know,” Alastair starts, leaning in closer to Dean’s face with the hint of a smile, and whispers, “ _I know.”_

“Wha-” Dean splutters, then Alastair reaches out and grasps Dean’s wrist, and Dean is paralyzed except for his thrumming heart and the litany of panicked thoughts – _He knows, oh God, he knows, Zachariah, all the others…_

“I know about you sneaking around,” Alastair hisses, then shoves at Dean and sends him topping across the bed. Alastair climbs on, standing on his knees and lowering himself slowly over Dean with one hand on the sheets, the other on Dean’s belt.

“Know all about your dirty little secret,” he snarls into Dean’s ear, giving a great tug and snaking the belt from the loops of Dean’s jeans.

Dean’s mind is in overdrive. Could he fight his way out? What is Alastair going to do to him? Surely he’ll kill him. So this is where he dies? What’s going to happen to Sammy?

“I have to admit,” Alastair says, ripping Dean out of his thoughts as he straddles his torso. He runs the belt between his hands and peers down at him. “He _was_ a handsome Alpha.”

Dean blinks, eyebrows pinched.

What?

“It was such a sweet nickname you gave him too,” he adds thoughtfully, fingers pulling the belt into a grip. “What was it? Cas?”

Dean’s eyes widen and his whole body flinches.

“This –– this is… he’s nothing,” Dean manages, words not coming together, too many thoughts, panic choking him. Alastair leans down, belt ready.

“You’re right,” Alastair says. Dean can't seem to hold his body still, like he's fighting to get out of his own skin. Alastair tuts and says, “don’t worry. Someone’s been sent to take care of him.”

More adrenalin that Dean has ever known explodes in his veins, all his muscles on edge and ready to tear Alastair’s throat out, which is exposed as he turns to take off Dean’s pants.

“Don’t,” Dean grits out, heart now hammering in his chest, body writhing. “Don’t hurt him. He didn’t –– we didn’t –”

Alastair punches Dean, once, hard, across the cheek. Dean starts thrashing, but Alastair is bounding Dean’s hands over his head with the belt, tightening it painfully. Alastair’s hand then moves into his back pocket, and he pulls out a revolver. Dean stills like death, and Alastair just holds it there, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He looks at it thoughtfully, then slips his hand into position. He looks down at Dean and his face hardens.

“Don’t you ever forget what you are,” he growls. “You _belong_ _to me._ ”

He leans in again, and Dean’s heart pounds thunderously. Dean can barely hear words over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

“I was afraid he broke you,” Alastair says quietly, eyes flicking all over Dean’s face. “But it looks like I get to do that.”

 

\----

 

Castiel had fallen asleep on the couch that night, waiting until Gabriel retreated for bed before eating two crepes.

His whole body felt heavy with exhaustion, and he dreams of Dean, dressed in medieval chainmail and leather like a Game of Thrones character, doing something nerdy like LARPing…

That is, until something starts nagging, pulling him slowly out of sleep. He slowly becomes aware of his surroundings. Couch. Sore neck. Darkness. Phone, illuminated through the light blue of his jeans. He pulls it out just as the call ends, but the name flashes: SHERIFF MILLS.

Cas blinks rapidly and scrambles, unlocking his phone and pressing redial while he sits forward, casting around for a pen and paper. Did investigators find a lead on Zachariah? He and Sheriff Mills have a good working relationship. He pulls the phone away for a moment to check the time – 1:28 a.m. Pretty late for a tip, but he’s ready.

“Castiel?” a female voice comes through on the other line.

“Hello Jody,” Castiel says, voice rough but slipping into reporter mode.

“Glad I caught you,” she says, sounding relieved. “Sorry it’s so late.”

“It’s no problem, you know I don’t sleep,” Castiel says, testing a pen on the paper in front of him.

“Look, I need you to come to the station,” Jody says, sighing regretfully.

“What? Why?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already sent two guys over to drive you,” she evades. “You’re at your brother’s apartment, right? Gabriel?”

Cas stands, walking to the window. No cop cars are in the parking lot of Gabriel’s complex.

“Yes, I’m staying with my brother – how do you know that? Why are you bringing me in?”

“Just listen, okay, Castiel?” Jody says. “I need this off the record. I’m not talking to reporter-you. I’m Sheriff Mills talking to Castiel Novak.”

“Okay?” he says slowly.

“Are you sitting down?” she says.

Cas’ eyes narrow. He glances at Gabriel’s door out of instinct, which is so close he can hear him snoring safely on the other side. He lowers himself awkwardly to the couch.

Once Castiel confirms he’s sitting, Jody begins, “We have some new information on Zachariah’s death.”

“I thought you said–”

“Listen to me,” she cuts in, tone insistent and too sympathetic and calm. “We have reason to believe the person who killed Zachariah is the same person who killed Balthazar.”

Cas’ head swims for a moment, air pressing into him. For a moment he processes nothing.

“You –– you, what?”

A knock comes at the door. Cas catches flashing red and blue in the parking lot.

“Cops are here,” Cas reports, voice sounding very far away.

“I’ll talk to you very soon, okay?” Jody’s voice comes through the phone, but Castiel’s already pulling it away from his ear, hanging up and moving to stand. His whole body feels tingly and hot. He peers through the door hole before opening it to two deputies, who look at the phone in his hand.

“I just,” Cas starts, standing before them helplessly in his t-shirt and flannel pants, bare footed. For some reason he just feels ridiculous. “I… I need to get my brother.”

Twenty minutes later he and Gabriel are in the back of a police vehicle, pulling into the county sheriff’s administrative office. The officials park and get out, and Castiel sits numbly, staring forward. Gabriel takes the moment of solitude to reach over and grip Castiel’s arm.

“They’re going to find this monster,” Gabe whispers, more serious and somber than Castiel can recall. “They’re gonna get him.”

Cas nods, though he feels nothing, and clamors out once the sheriff’s deputies pull open their doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please line up in an orderly fashion to hug Dean and Cas here birdoflastsummer.tumblr.com
> 
> Updates soon!


	8. Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for descriptions of vomiting and mentions of abuse and non-con drugs.

Dean comes to slowly with the distinct feeling that his head and body are much too heavy. He tries to peel open his eyes, but nothing happens. Waves of exhaustion flow through him, pulling him down further, and he lets go…

He is jolted awake sometime later, minutes, hours, days, by his own choking cough, spluttering for oxygen around a lump in his throat. Dean’s lying on his stomach and he barely manages to lift his head and brace himself before he’s vomiting. He pulls heaving breaths between bouts, arms weakly lifting him away from the mess and eyes automatically filling with water at the unbearable sensory overload.

Dean’s head screams at the sudden movement and exploding tension as he dry heaves a few times, nothing left to throw up. Finally, Dean settles. Arms braced awkwardly to hold his head and torso away from the mess, he groans and tries to inch away.

A panic he doesn’t really understand grips him, scratches under the surface.

Dean’s body seems to be slowly coming online. The first sensation he feels is pain like fire from his thigh. Dean sucks in a breath, still awkwardly holding himself above his own vomit. Before he attempts to move, Dean tries to do a quick mental inventory.

In short, everything fucking hurts.

Starting at the top, Dean’s head pounds so violently he believes the sensation has to be audible – is this a migraine? All Dean knows is migraines are bad headaches, and fuck if a head can hurt worse than this. There’s a slight dizziness, a truly disgusting dry mouth-slash-vomit combination and his eyes are so heavy they feel like they’re attached to weights as Dean tries to take in his surroundings.

Dark, angry bruises encircle his wrists, which weaken slightly as Dean becomes fully aware of the discomfort. But his torso is shaky and his leg still feels like it’s on fire. His ass _aches_.

Dean pulls up the leg that isn’t currently bursting in flames to bend at the knee and tips himself up and away from his vomit into a sitting position against a wall. The effort knocks the wind out of him and Dean’s vision swims dangerously, so he closes his eyes and waits for it – the dizziness, the nausea, the pain – to pass. Or maybe he will to pass out again. Really, Dean would be fine with losing consciousness for a while...

After several minutes of deep breathing, Dean’s eyes edge open again. He’s sitting in a bare room with concrete floors. It’s vaguely familiar looking, but his brain can’t quite place it.

The offending jean-clad thigh extended uselessly in front of him is not literally engulfed in fire. Well, that’s good. Dean reaches a shaky hand to feel around on it, trying to pinpoint the source of pressure. When he finds it he lets out a small noise of pain, but most telling is the immediate, hardwired throb in his ass.

 _That fucker_ , Dean thinks, a weak adrenalin rush attempting to spike through him but mostly making his stomach lurch. Dean understands: Alastair must’ve stuck him with one of his Omega syringes – Dean knows it induces heats, which are quite effective in making Alastiar’s Omegas pliant and willing.

Unfortunately the revelation doesn’t resonate with the panic he feels. Usually when he’s forgotten something terrible it lurches knowingly when he remembers. Something else is wrong.

Dean blinks blearily as it occurs to him that he could’ve been out for days.

“Finally awake?” a deep voice calls.

 _Nah, I just vomited and casually sat up in my sleep_.

Dean looks up to see a man he recognizes – one of his handlers, maybe – looking at him from an open door on the other side of the room. The man’s arms are crossed menacingly and he looks at Dean like he’s actual dirt. _Alpha_ , his brain immediately detects, and he fights an urge to turn his eyes down for some reason.

“Just enjoying the view,” Dean answers instead, going for casual but his voice is scratchy with disuse and the vomiting.

“You’ve got somewhere to be,” the voice says.

Dean blinks up at him, taking in the dark skin and astonishingly unconcerned expression. Dean casts around in his brain, urging it to work. _Uriel._ That’s the man’s name. Dean’s sure he heard Alastair call him that once when he was in the kitchen, back at the shack.

 _The shack_ , Dean groans internally (and maybe out loud.) He doesn’t want to go back. That’s where Alastair is, and Alastair did this to him… Alastair hurt him, hurt him for…

For what?

Slowly, then suddenly the memory of Alastair hissing Cas’ name bowls him over and for a moment his aching body goes numb. Dean remembers realizing that Alastair didn’t know about the murders, but he knew about Castiel. And Alastiar… threatened Cas? Dean’s brain is whirling, the pounding getting louder in his ears. What had Alastair said?

_“Don’t worry. Someone’s been sent to take care of him.”_

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, promptly leaning down and retching.

 _There it is,_ Dean thinks wearily as he realizes the source of the sickening panic he woke with.

The effort to turn over his stomach is more than Dean’s body can handle. White lights burst behind Dean’s eyes – he doesn’t know if they’re open or closed – and that’s the last thing he remembers before blacking out.

 

 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Alastair’s voice slithers around in Dean’s skull.

It’s fear that pries his eyes open, a sense of self preservation strong enough to need to understand where he is and what’s going on despite his whole body screaming. He’s back in the shack, laying on the floor next to the ratty couch in the living room. He still aches and there’s a very unpleasant, familiar wetness in his boxers.

The stench of the shack is even more potent than usual. Dean turns his head and counts six Alphas around him, including Alastair. Uriel is one of them, and the others are handlers whose names he doesn’t know.

“How are you feeling?” Alastair asks.

“Fucking fantastic,” Dean says, closing his eyes and putting his head back down to channel all his hate into his words. A pause, a shift in scent, and then –

“You smell delicious,” Alastair’s voice is very close to his ear now, which makes Dean start, eyes flying back open and locating Alastair, crouched next to him on the floor. Dean instinctually tries to move away, but there’s no room for him to move and Alastair doesn’t try to come closer.

“I don’t know why I ever put you on suppressants,” he sighs, eyes raking over Dean’s face. “I almost forgot how good you smell during heat.”

“Why did you do this?” Dean grits out, though everything inside him is screaming to keep his mouth shut and eyes down. He fights against another bout of nausea and internally growls at what he now recognizes as a truly horrifying biological reaction to being in heat and being so near an Alpha his body recognizes, however unpleasant that Alpha is.

“You’re not playing nice, Dean,” Alastair’s voice is light, but Dean knows better. “I’m resetting the system. Fixing you, and reminding you of your place.”

Dean’s head swims, and he realizes that he’s practically soaked through his boxers. He’s lucid enough to be disguised with himself, but his body is vibrating with need.

Alastair casually lifts a hand and his thumb works at a cuticle, and Dean is lurched into a memory.

When Dean speaks, he can't seem to speak above a whisper.

“Did you…” Dean begins, then swallows. He can’t continue because his head spins violently. Maybe it’s the drugs. _Cas._

Alastair’s eyes shoot up from his hand to meet Dean’s eye, and Dean knows he understands what Dean’s asking. Alastair’s eyes flash red.

“No,” Alastair articulates carefully.

Dean’s still holding his breath, still absolutely paralyzed, but something like relief explodes in his chest.

“When we got there, he had visitors,” Alastair continues, voice dangerously low. “Police.”

Dean blinks rapidly for a moment, his mind turning over the information. Then he realizes the look Alastair is fixing him with is one of expectation.

“I have no idea why the police were there,” Dean says.

Dean knows the words are true, but as soon as they leave his mouth he starts to question them. _Does_ he know? Maybe Castiel figured something out about Zachariah. A tingling begins in the base of his skull. Maybe he’s hurt.

 _No_ , Dean tells himself firmly. The people who would hurt him are in this room, looking impatiently at _him_ , who is having a really hard time ignoring his aching ass.

“Did you tell him what you are?” Alastair hisses, leaning in.

The omega part of him seems louder now than usual, and supplies: _Omega. Bitch. Hole._ Dean grits his teeth against it. The foreign, desperate feeling makes Dean panic. He’s never seen what happens to the Omegas after they’re put into induced heat.

Dean’s fingernails dig into his palms with the effort to ignore the desperate need for a knot.

“Aquarius? Chiefs fan? More of a dog person?” Dean hums thoughtfully.

Because why the fuck not? It’s all over now.

Alastair grins at him, then a hand shoots out and grips his thigh in a vice-like grip, right where Dean was stuck.

Dean sucks in a breath as the pain flashes, all systems – eyes, head, ears, spine, ass – pulsing, flickering dangerously like the lights during a storm.

“Every Omega’s different,” Dean barely registers Alastair’s muttering. It sounds like he might be talking to himself, but Dean thinks another of the Alphas moves to kneel down next to him and is taking rapid notes. “We just have to get the dosage right. It didn’t put him under properly. There’s still too much… him.”

Alastair’s eyes meet Dean’s and flick between them clinically.

The hand tightens and something pricks Dean’s leg, sending a rush of pain through him and a throbbing at his hole. Dean opens his mouth to say something, maybe something about how they should leave Cas alone, but the words can’t form, and his tongue feels oddly heavy.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Dean grits out, maybe.

Then his vision starts spotting.

White fuzzes around the edges.

He smells apples.

Black.

 

\----

 

Castiel sleep walks through much of the next month in a daze, spending his non-working hours driving aimlessly around Lawrence. His editor Naomi was giving him a wide berth, allowing him to work from home when he wanted to and keep odd hours, so long as he was meeting his daily and weekly deadlines and turning in quality articles.

Well, quality is a strong term. But he was churning out content and avoiding responsibility with the best of them.

Cas’ hands loosely grip the steering wheel one night as he drifts through the streets after work. He pours over what he knows for the thousandth time: the police believe the same murder weapon used on Balthazar was used on Zachariah. It was the same knife used in a few other cases throughout the years, and each time the police had wondered, but the evidence wasn’t substantial enough to be conclusive.

This time DNA evidence matching a index finger at Balthazar’s crime scene was found at Zachariah’s. The DNA didn’t match anyone in the police system, but it was enough to lead officials, at this point in the investigation, to believe the same killer was behind it.

He immediately recused himself of any stories regarding Zachariah’s murder at the paper. He surprised himself when he didn’t call Naomi to give her the anonymous scoop. Not only could it actually harm the investigation – unlike so many of the facts withheld from the public during investigations – but Cas felt… unsettled by the revelation.

It tied together some elements Castiel had simultaneously wondered about and feverishly tried to forget. For one, Zachariah’s basement.  It was rumored to be some kind of sex dungeon, but his wife swears she has no idea, and her DNA was not found there, according to Jody.

So Zachariah was cheating. And Balthazar, well… Cas had all but known that Balthazar was cheating. Balthazar was a Beta and never felt the same tie to Cas that’d he’d felt.

When they’d broken up after an explosive argument about the bite Castiel has given, Cas felt an actual ache in his heart and an overwhelming frustration that no one would ever love Balthazar as much as he did, so why couldn’t they just be together?

Castiel understood now that those desperate, stupid feelings were just the tricks of first love. In the gloomy years since that relationship had ended, Casitel has come to the sad realization that he can never again love someone like he’d loved Balthazar. It’s not even a reflection on Balthazar – it’s just that Castiel is sure his heart isn’t capable of expanding that far again, letting someone so deeply in again.

It knows too much now. He can’t fall that hard again.

But that leads him back to the killer. Does this person have some kind of agenda? Is someone actually risking life and limb to kill off cheating scumbags?

Castiel resurfaces from his thoughts and looks up to see he’s unintentionally driven to Gabriel’s apartment. Castiel lets out a deep sigh and trudges up to the front door, knocking once.

Gabriel swings open the door, clad in jeans and a T-shirt that proclaims I’D DO ME, and grins widely when he sees Castiel.

“What?” Castiel says, going for suspicious but mostly landing on tired.

“We’ve got plans tonight, little bro.” Gabriel waggles his eyebrows.

“How did you even know I’d come here?”

“It’s a Friday night, and you don’t have any friends,” he replies easily.

“Today’s Friday?” Cas wonders out loud before he thinks better of it. He immediately realizes his mistake. Gabriel’s eyebrows contract, his arm falls slumps from where it holds the front door open and he looks transparently worried.

Rookie mistake, Cas chastises himself. He really should be better at faking the whole _having-your-life-together_ thing by now. He hates worrying Gabriel.

Castiel makes an attempt to pull himself together. “So, plans, huh? Does it involve strippers?”  
“I would never!” Gabriel gasps theatrically, though his bravado is lackluster.

Cas pushes in and beelines for the couch. There he perches on the armrest and waits for his brother to continue.

“Rent was due today. I don’t have strippers in the budget right now,” Gabriel confirms petulantly. “We’ll just have to get hammered, like peasants.”

“This must be a difficult time for you,” Cas says solemnly.

“It’s my cross to bear,” Gabe sighs. Then he takes a closer look at Castiel and closes the door. “Man, when was the last time you showered?”

Castiel levels a glare at him.

“I’ve been busy,” he defends lightly.

Gabriel sighs and crosses the small foyer to sit down next to him.

“I know,” he says, tone less sarcastic now. “And that’s why I’m trying to distract you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me I can’t run from my problems?” Castiel asks, tilting his head.

“You’re already running away from your problems,” Gabriel shoots back. “You’re wallowing. Not showering and hating yourself. It’s cramping my style.”  
“Apologies,” Cas offers with a straight face.

It’s only due to happen once every few years, but he knows Gabriel is right. He hates when that happens.

“As your older brother, the least I can do is heard you into running away from your problems in more fun directions.”

Gabe grins, and Castiel’s lips tip up. The feeling is almost foreign to his face. He sighs and looks down, really seeing himself for the first time today. Where did he even get his shirt? Has it been that long since he did laundry?

“I need to fucking shower,” Cas says very seriously.

“That you fucking do, kid.”

 

\----

 

Dean really is only aware of the scents of Alphas surrounding him.

His eyes are fine. Maybe a bit like tunnel vision. His ears are working, but his brain is slow and pleasantly fuzzy. Dean feels light, and oddly content. Not happy, per se, but not angry, either.

And he’s wet. He’s always so wet.

But all he knows is there are Alphas around.

He’s sitting in Perdition. It smells like _Alpha._ It’s hard to pick out any one Alpha scent though. Maybe because he’s in the booth with four other Alphas. Two on each side. They all wear so much cologne to mask their scent. Or maybe it’s to mask Dean’s scent. He’s not sure. Maybe both.

They always shield him when they walk him in and out. It seems to happen often. It’s hard to tell. He wishes they wouldn’t stand around him. He wants to scent.

Nothing really smells right though.

He needs a knot.

“Hey,” a loud voice jostles Dean out of his thoughts. Dean’s head is lolling slightly to the left. He rolls it back up and aims his face toward the direction of the noise.

One of his guards, addressing him. An Alpha. Dear stares, rapt.

“Close your mouth,” the voice orders, not-so-gently knocking Dean’s chin up. Dean complies immediately, then turns his eyes down. His mouth feels like sand paper.

“He’s better when he’s had a drink,” says another voice. Dean doesn’t move. There are so many Alphas around.

“Hey,” the same voice asks. Dean peeks up. “Do you want a drink?”

Dean nods, small and quick, then looks down again.

He breathes deeply. No, none of the smells are right. But they’re Alphas. Maybe there are too many of them for him to scent them properly.

A drink appears before him at the table, and he smells another Alpha blocking him in the booth. Dean doesn’t move to drink it yet.

“Go on,” the voice commands, and Dean does, lifting it up and drinking the whole thing down in long pulls.

He can’t really taste it. Someone near him huffs a laugh.

Some time passes. Dean’s not really aware of anything. Some Alphas approach the table, and Dean keeps his eyes down. His handlers dismiss them all. Sometimes there is a lot of noise. Sometimes it’s quick. More cologne is sprayed.

It takes a long time for Dean to realize some of the discomfort he feels is the need to pee. Terror strikes him. He can’t ask that. It’s not his place. It’s an inconvenience. What if an Alpha wants him and he isn’t here?

The Alphas at his booth talk. They smell annoyed, then impatient, then resigned. Dean buries himself deeper.

He’s offered another drink, and he drinks it even though he knows it’ll only add to his discomfort. Then another.

His vision doesn’t change, but his brain is shaking off some dust. He’s not drunk. For some reason it seems to be clearing his head. And he really needs to pee.

Dean tentatively lifts his eyes to meet the Alpha next to him.

“I need to…” Dean mutters barely above a whisper, nodding in the direction of the bathroom.

The Alpha looks up between the others in question.

“He’s still got another 45 minutes,” another Alpha shrugs, and he sounds frustrated and bored.

Two of the Alphas move out from the booth so Dean can stand. Dean can’t help but take pleasure sliding around the booth, finally getting some friction against his hole.

When he stands, he’s surprised to see the other Alphas sit back down. They usually walk with him anywhere he goes.

Dean shuffles to the bathroom, only about 15 feet away from the booth. The cologne fumes clear the more distance he puts between himself and the booth. Now he can smell Alphas scents pressing in around him. But the Alphas smell bad. Really bad.

He doesn’t like it. His head swims. They smell like all the other Alphas he’s been seeing. He doesn’t like them.

Dean gets into the bathroom. He can’t wait for the door to slowly swing closed, so he puts all his weight behind it and forces it closed.

It smells so much better in here. Dean closes his eyes and inhales deeply, still slouched against the door. Against those smells.

It’s not just that the bathroom doesn’t smell like the rest of Perdition. Like all those other Alphas.

No, it smells good. Actually good.

Suddenly Dean is suffocated and panic-stricken at the thought of ever leaving this bathroom. Something courses through him and he turns and locks the bathroom door, still heavily breathing in the intoxicating, clean smell.

He blinks rapidly, and looks around him, as if seeing it for the first time. Oh. It’s not a one-person bathroom, and one of the stalls is occupied. Dean walks over to the urinal, and is surprised to see he’s half-hard.

He’s been wet for weeks, but he’s never hard.

He mentally shakes it off and relieves himself, still pulling in deep breaths of that smell. Each time he fills his lungs he feels himself sober fractionally. Not from the alcohol… from everything. The scent is cold like a washcloth after a hot summer’s day, and he breathes deep.

 _Fuck, that smells nice_ , Dean thinks clearly.

Dean’s not sure if it’s making him feel entirely better though. His bladder is now empty, but his ass still throbs. Dean thinks it might actually be throbbing more than usual.

A toilet flushes. Dean quickly zips his jeans and turns to unlock the bathroom door before the other person in the bathroom thinks he’s a crazy person.

He’s only just turned around when the stall door swings open, and Dean is immediately and thoroughly bowled over by a wave of that minty, clean, perfect scent and the man standing before him.

Dean’s brain processes faster than it has in a month. Runners thighs. Long limbs. Messy, dark hair. Strong jaw line with stubble a bit thicker than he remembers it being. Intense, wide, _fucking blue eyes_.

“Cas,” Dean breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m very sorry this took so long. Life can really get in the way of fan fiction sometimes.  
> Let me know what you think! Also at birdoflastsummer.tumblr.com


	9. Scent

Everything in Cas’ world sharpens on the Omega in front of him.

Not just an Omega, he tells himself, mentally shaking his head. Dean.

Cas should’ve known it immediately. He thought perhaps the bathroom had an air freshener. He should’ve known that the room didn’t smell like anything in particular for the few seconds before a second bar patron entered. Should’ve recognized the scent, a million times stronger now.

Should’ve known that no artificial fragrance in the world could possibly smell like this. It smothers his senses, dips into every nook of his brain, seeps into his whole body. Cas feels simultaneously like it’s hurling through the sky and utterly still.

Cas only has a moment to process this before Dean takes an abortive step forward. Then another. Cas stands motionless, completely stunned by the onslaught.

“Dean?” Cas asks weakly, his voice much rougher than usual.

And oh God, Dean makes some kind of small noise that might’ve been a whimper in the back of his throat and then, like the floodgates had opened, he is right in front of Castiel.

Cas sucks in a breath, and before he knows what’s happening Dean tilts his head down and buries his nose into Cas’ throat, breathing deeply through his nose.

Cas stands stock-still while Dean noses at him, lingering in the doorframe of the bathroom stall. Dean’s sweet scent is so much stronger here, curling around him, making the blood rush loudly in his ears. Cas’ hands itch to pull Dean in further, to run his hands through his hair and hold him as tight as Dean will let him. But he can’t tear his eyes away from how Dean seems to be reacting to Cas’ scent, his rigid shoulders slowly losing their tension with every deep breath he hauls.

His face tilts, heavy, and Dean’s mouth rests absently against Cas’ throat as he continues to breathe. Cas closes his eyes against the sensory overload.

“Dean?” Cas murmurs gently in the direction of Dean’s face. Again, Cas fights his instinct to reach out and touch him, but didn’t trust himself.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds. Cas chances a look at him, and sees Dean blinking wearily, almost like he’s waking up.

“Just… gimme a second,” Dean says, voice even rougher than Castiel’s.

Castiel gives him all the time he needs, distantly aware that he wants to memorize everything about this moment, about Dean so close to him and about the way he smells. After months of living in shades of gray, it is almost too much to process.

Dean eventually pulls his face back, though he doesn’t back away. Cas eyes search Dean’s face, and Dean looks like he’d been hit in the head, with hooded, slightly glossy eyes.

Cas had memorized the exact green of Dean’s eyes, but so many months had passed without seeing them that Cas was sure his memory was playing tricks on him. But no, here they are, and his eyes are just as green as they always were during those early morning coffee trips. Even at his most tired though, Cas never saw Dean’s eyes look so unfocused, his pupils dilating and constricting unnaturally.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Cas asks, voice soft but urgent.

Dean huffs a small, empty laugh and lowers his eyes.

“Sorry, man,” he manages, swallowing like it’s difficult to form words. “You just smell really good.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, but his mind unhelpfully screams, _so do you._

“Are you in heat?” Cas whispers, as if saying it quietly will lessen the blow.

“Probably,” Dean sighs.

Something roars inside Cas.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Cas says, keeping his voice as steady and serious as possible against the mounting desperation he feels. “It’s not safe.”

Dean’s head is tilting forward again, and his hand makes a vague waving gesture toward the door.

“Got some people out there,” he says, then looks up at Cas from beneath his lashes, a horribly vulnerable look on his face that should never be there.

“Can I?”

Cas stares helplessly at Dean. Dean nods at Cas’ neck.

“Helps me think better,” Dean mutters, like he’s embarrassed.

“Oh,” Cas breathes weakly. “Of course.”

Now that he has permission, Dean practically face plants into Cas’ throat, and Cas turns so his back is pressed against the side of the stall. Cas’ body is vibrating with electricity, so he senses rather than feels when Dean’s hands move to steady himself against stall on either side of Cas’ waist.

“It’s not a real heat,” Dean manages after a few breaths, sounding fractionally better than before. Maybe it really does help him think better. “Just this thing they do.”  
“You’re being drugged?” Cas asks, and a buzz itches in the back of his skull.

“I’m fine,” Dean returns.

“You’re not,” Cas insists, fury and horror creeping into his voice. “It’s not fine.”

Dean just sighs, his eyes closing.

“I feel better now,” Dean says quietly.

Cas’ heart clenches, and in the aching silence he looks down at what he can see of Dean’s face. His eyes are closed, but dark bruises circle his eyes and his freckles seem faded against his pale skin. He looks thin, not soft yet muscled like he’s supposed to. Cas very cautiously reaches up and touches Dean’s cheek with his thumb. It’s stubbly but soft, and Cas’ skin tingles. Dean reacts to the touch and drags his head away from his throat.

“You need to get out of here,” Cas says, forcing Dean to make eye contact. His eyes have lost some of their glaze, and he appears lucid.

“I can’t leave,” Dean says, shaking his head slightly.

“Why not?”

The bathroom door handle rattles, and Cas fiercely shoves Dean behind him to shield him from the intruder. Dean is in _heat._ He can’t be at a bar, with idiotic Alphas crawling all over him.

But the door doesn’t open.

“I think I locked it,” Dean’s small voice offers from behind Cas. Cas blinks, then turns to look at Dean, belatedly processing his own defensive actions and more than a little surprised at them.

“Why did you lock it?”

Dean stares at Cas, like he’s really seeing him for the first time. A small smile tips the corners of his lips up, a remnant of the Dean that Cas knew. _My Dean_ , he thinks wildly.

“I told you,” Dean answers. “You smell really good.”

Cas barely holds back a whimper, or a growl, or some other base Alpha instinct that he doesn’t really recognize.

“Dean, please –”

“I’ve gotta go back out there, Cas,” Dean grits out, looking toward the door. “They’re probably wondering where I am.”

“The people who drug you?” Cas asks incredulously.

“Cas,” Dean says, eyes boring into his. Dean seems fully here now. Cas can see a million thoughts flying across Dean’s face, but the door handle rattles again. Dean’s eyes flick up in the direction of the door and then back to Cas’, and his beautiful features slip rapidly into desperation. “Will you come back tomorrow night?”

“Come… here?”

“Yes, will you come back tomorrow?” Dean asks in a rush, eyes huge and pleading.

“Yes,” Cas answers automatically, as if he had any choice.

The answering relief that floods Dean’s face is almost too much for Cas. Dean nods and manages to straighten up and move past Cas to the door. Castiel follows him out the stall, kind of wants to follow him forever, and watches as Dean’s hand lingers over the simple, rusted lock. Dean doesn’t turn it though. He turns back to Castiel first, and Cas can’t seem to arrange his face into something less than distressed.

“Give it a few minutes before leaving,” Dean murmurs to the ground, then his eyes lift up meet Cas’. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dean pulls the door open and heads out. Castiel stands, transfixed, halfway between the stall and the door. An impatient Alpha shoves in immediately after Dean leaves. His face shifts when he’s hit with the scent of the bathroom, Dean’s intoxicating, heat-induced scent still hanging heavy in the air.

He meets Castiel’s eye and lets out a whistle.

“Nice,” he nods appraisingly, looking thoughtful.

Cas is still reeling and wants to scream, to bash the guy’s head in, because it’s so far from _nice_ that he shouldn’t be allowed to breathe this air. Instead, Cas narrows his eyes dangerously and growls. The man, clad in a suit and admittedly larger than Cas, just lets out a low chuckle.

“Down, boy,” he says, walking over to the urinal. “I’m not going to hit on your bitch.”

“He’s not a bitch,” Cas snarls.

The man rolls his eyes and wafts at the air exaggeratedly.

“He’s an Omega in heat, right?” the man returns, tone light. “If it looks like a dog, walks like a dog and barks like a dog, it’s a dog.”

Cas sees red and, quite without the permission of his conscious brain, storms over. The man’s hands are fixed on the fly of his jeans, but he turns right as Castiel reaches him. Cas grabs him by the lapels of his black suit jacket, white knuckling the dark material and shoving him back against the wall. Not enough to slam his head into the wall, but hard enough.

“Do not call him that,” Cas breathes into his face.

The man’s eyes flashed dangerously for a moment, but smooth over into amusement.

“You poor, stupid Alpha,” he said, sickening condescension teasing his face. “You don’t know who that is, do you?”

_DeanDeanDean_ Cas thinks emphatically, thoughts smothered with the knowledge of who Dean is and the injustice of how wrong everyone is about him. Cas doesn’t respond, but his hands tighten impossibly on the expensive lapels of the suit.

“He’s just a prostitute,” the man says, slowly, like he’s explaining to a child why the sky is blue. Then he takes a sniff at Castiel. “Smells like he did a number on you.”

Cas’ eyes widened, and he lets go of the man in front of him. The man looked pleased, in a bored sort of way.

“You’ll be alright,” he says, looking down to straighten his jacket. “As long as you fucked him you’ll be feeling less ramped up soon. Sure smells like it. I hope you paid–”

A fist flies and connects with the underside of the man’s jaw. The impact crushes the side of his face into the wall, a sickening thud sounding where he connects.

He crumbles. The desperation and fury and sadness and protectiveness churning inside Cas momentarily freezes, and he has a moment of horror as his brain replays the sound. Did he just…?

But the man’s legs belatedly splay out, working to get him back to a standing position. Cas whirls back to the present, wrath radiating from the Alpha in front of him. The man raises a hand to his temple, where dark blood is seeping from a cut.

“You base _fucking animal_ ,” he breathes, pulling his fingers away from the cut and eyes glaring daggers at Cas, who returns them without apology.

“Nothing compared to you,” Castiel growls, raising his fists and baring his teeth.

The Alpha sends a fist at Cas’ face, and Cas blocks it, leaving his ribs unguarded and he feels the man’s other fist connect and knock the wind out of him. Castiel reels back for a moment, doubled over, but becomes aware of the man stalking toward him. He straightens and ducks out of the way of another punch, then manages to land another blow near his injured temple.

The man hisses and reaches into his pocket. The Alpha pulls out a silver, 9-centimeter pocketknife and holds it confidently in his palm.

“Just for this bullshit, looks like I’m gonna go schedule myself a little appointment with that Omega,” he says, eyes glinting toward Cas.

Cas launches himself at him, head barreling into his chest and arms reaching to pin down his arms. They land on the floor, kicking and elbowing and fighting to get on top and land the final blow. A hand closes around Cas’ throat as the other pounds and shoves and elbows any part it can find. Cas’ own hands try to keep track of the one holding the pocketknife or land a punch. Then another pair of hands roughly pull Castiel away and slam him into the wall.

A man with PERDITION STAFF etched onto his shirt swims in his vision.

“Get out! Both of you!” he yells, hand bunched in Cas’ shirt. Castiel continues to glare at the man, who is restrained across the bathroom by another staffer.

Castiel’s hot everywhere, too much adrenalin pumping to really do a mental inventory of which body parts hurt, but he’s quickly herded out of the bar by security. Cas tries to look around for Dean, but he can’t see him in the corner booth.

When he’s shoved out the front door, stumbling to a halt on the sidewalk, he finds Gabriel hot on his heels.

“What the fuck happened?” Gabriel asks, sounding awed.

Cas looks around quickly, breathing heavily through his nose, but the Alpha must’ve been sent to a different exit. Still, he could be coming back.

“Come on,” Cas grits out, turning to walk in the direction of Gabriel’s apartment, ignoring the pain blooming in various regions of his body.

“Hold up there, Rocky,” Gabe says, catching Cas’ shoulder. He bodily maneuvers Cas so that he’s leaning against the exterior of the brick building. Cas becomes aware of how heavily he’s breathing.

“Shit, Cas,” Gabriel mutters, eyes glued to Cas’ side. Sure enough, when Castiel looks down he sees a tear in his shirt that’s stained dark with blood.

“Pocketknife,” Cas supplies.

“Pocketknife,” Gabriel echoes, eyebrows high as the sky.

“Yep.”

“ _What the actual fuck?_ ”

“Can we just go? I’ll explain when we get out of here.”

“Do I need to tell how you crazy this is? Should I take you to the hospital? How deep is that wound? Is someone coming after us?”

The air outside the bar is cold, autumn taking the turn into colder winter weather. It should feel refreshing, but Cas’ head is spinning.

“Please,” Cas exhales, eyes closed.

 

The walk to Gabriel’s is not pleasant, but he allows it to pass in strained silence until they reach the apartment. Cas is hurting, but he keeps his walk as inconspicuous as possible until they get through the front door, then beelines to the bathroom and shuts the door. In the silence and blessed stillness, he squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, just deep breathing and calming himself down.

He got in a fight. He saw Dean. He’s being drugged, and even if it was just for a second, Cas could’ve sworn Dean looked desperate and scared.

When he opens his eyes, he’s shocked at the reflection he sees. His hair is sticking up even worse than usual, his eyes are bloodshot, and angry, red marks that will probably bruise run up and down his arms and neck. His clothes are disheveled, his knuckles are raw and bleeding and a few of his fingers are caked in blood.

The sight of it makes Cas refocus on his side, right below his ribs. The hole in his shirt is creased over and at this angle he can’t even see the bloody skin. But he can feel it, and it throbs in protest of the long walk.

Cas can’t seem to stop thinking about the way Dean looked at him when he asked him to return to Perdition tomorrow. Cas’ hands hover hesitantly above the cut, unsure what to do.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually a soft knock comes at the bathroom door.

“Need some help?” Gabriel asks, sticking his head in.

Castiel’s head tilts up, meeting his brother’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. Cas hates how completely lost he looks. His brother doesn’t wait for a reply, just wordlessly enters the bathroom and starts wetting a hand towel with warm water.

“You’re okay, bro,” Gabriel soothes, tone unnaturally comforting. Cas can feel all the energy draining out of him.

Cas just nods, and with Gabriel’s help he unbuttons his shirt and lets it slide off. He stands in silence while his brother tends to his wound. Castiel’s job is mostly to gently press the washcloth to it while Gabriel hunts for the first aid materials.

When it’s over, and Gabriel declares that he doesn’t need stitches – Cas doesn’t question it, even though his brother isn’t even remotely qualified to make that judgment – the two linger in the bathroom for a moment.

“You need anything else?” Gabriel asks.

“Not now,” Cas says, voice wavering slightly. Then he adds, “but I’ll need something from you tomorrow.”

 

\----

 

When Dean finally collapses onto a bench, he is so startlingly _awake._

He looks around himself, almost amazed at the crispness of the world. Like everything’s been fuzzy and someone just gave him glasses, and he can see things now that he didn’t even realize he was _supposed_ to be able to see. He focuses on grass peeking out between the squares of sidewalk, really feels the cool wind press around him where he sits, takes in the calm of the soft early morning light, fully understands the sticky but mostly dried wetness in his boxers.

Mostly dried, he tells himself.

He takes deep breaths, but still feels nauseated. Dean sits where he always sits, on the corner of an abandoned street where graffiti and litter sprinkle the closed down buildings and iron bars cover all the doors and windows, caked in soft, early morning light. The parking lots are always empty.

That’s why Dean’s attention snaps to the low rumbling of an approaching car. A thrill runs through him that he understands: his baby. He’s being picked up. He made it through another night. Another Alpha.

And that’s why he’s really awake. An Alpha. _Cas._

For the first time in what he’s afraid might be a long time, he isn’t lost. He fights through the haze of memories. Dean realizes he must’ve been receiving regular injections from Alastair’s assistant, no more than a quick pinch of pain to him at the time, which always came when he was at his most lucid. Then he slowly lost track of time again. Some impossible and undeterminable stretch of time would pass, and just when Dean could really understand what was happening, he would slip under again.

Not this time though. This is the most present he’s been since it began. He remembers last night. He saw Cas. And he smelled _so good_ and it seemed to calm him down. He could focus better when the scent was around him.

It woke him up, sobered him, sent a shock all the way through his system.

Even as his mind got all the way around the revelation, Dean realizes he can’t trust anyone. His baby slides to a halt in front of him. Dean allows his face to go slack, shoulders to slump absently as he had gone limp. The posture feels familiar to his worn out muscles. His eyes glaze over and his mouth hangs open slightly.

Dean’s eyes are fixed on the air in front of him, but he can see and hear a car door opening.

“Get in,” Crowley’s sharp voice commands.

Dean isn’t really sure on what his mannerisms should be, but he gives _drugged-out-of-your-mind_ a try and shuffles forward clumsily.

It must be right, because Crowley slides back in the car next to him, doesn’t bother making eye contact, and pushes the car down the street. Dean sits in silence, bursting with questions. When they don’t make the turn toward the highway, toward the shack, Dean nearly lets loose a question. But he stops himself. He waits to see where he’s being taken.

He’s surprised to discover the destination is… a different, but still dilapidated, house. The two-story home is set behind a front yard that’s mostly dirt and dead grass patches, a willow tree hanging over the whole structure, dead leaves clogging the gutters and building up in the slopes of the roof. The white paneling exterior chipped and pealing away and all the windows boarded over. Another car is parked out front.

“Get,” Crowley bites out. Dean jumps, transfixed at the home. And maybe still a little jumpy from the injections.

Dean scurries out, still staring up at the home. Crowley shuts off the car and gets out, immediately turning to go to the other car. Dean takes a hesitant step forward the home, then hears Crowley

“You’re on again in two days,” Crowley calls out to him, speaking slowly but clipped. He clearly doesn’t think he’s talking to a semi-ally. “If you need something, figure it out.”

Dean turns to look at him, but he’s already rolling up the window and pulling away. He turns back to the home instead, and walking slowly up to the front door, and pushes it open.

Other than being assaulted by the scent of Omega in heat, nothing notable happens. No Alpha goons leering at him from the kitchen, no Alastair wielding a needle, no… nothing. Not even furniture.

He walks up the stairs, where a single bedroom and bathroom await. There’s a bed, and the stench of his heat is so strong here Dean holds a jacket in front of his nose.

He glances at his clock, and sees it’s barely 8 a.m.  His whole body feels exhausted, but he moves away from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and heads downstairs. He lays down in the middle of the living room, intent on sleeping as long as his body will let him, to pass the time until he sees Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry this is late! Let me know what you think.
> 
> I'm 24/7 crying over these two on tumblr, birdoflastsummer.tumblr.com


	10. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for torture in this first part.

_The most disturbing part, by far, was the way the Omega didn’t scream when the Alphas dislocated her shoulder._

_Dean stares up from where he’s handcuffed, crouched low in fear and nausea. The room is sparsely lit by a light on the far wall and one hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, and the thickness of the air and lack of windows for natural light makes Dean suspect they may be underground. Nearby, an Omega is being questioned._

_Both her arms are being held up behind her head, cuffs secured around her wrists and connected to the ceiling by chains. Her shoulder blades are sharp, touching points on her exposed back. She stands precariously on her toes, the cuffs held too high above her head, as she tries to avoid putting weight on her injured shoulder. She can’t be older than 25, with long dark hair and big hazel eyes._

_“Is it true?” asks one of the Alphas who walks around her._

_She doesn’t make a noise and doesn’t move. Dean heard the pop when they jolted her body a few minutes ago, knew they’d just ripped one of her shoulders from its pocket. She’d begged them not to dislocate the first shoulder, but all she did was close her eyes this time._

_“Hey!” one of them slaps her, and despite her best efforts, she topples a little, losing her footing and pulling at the chains. A small whimper escapes her mouth at the pressure on her injured shoulder._

_Nearby, Dean is reeling. He has to help her. He needs to stop these men from hurting her. Nothing she did or didn’t do justifies this. They’re_ hurting _her._

_“Did you hear me?” an Alpha asks, roughly grabbing her jaw and making her look up._

_Light illuminates her face and streams of tears glisten in perfectly straight lines. Dean actually aches as the panic courses through him._

_“It’s true,” she finally responds. Her voice is so small Dean can barely hear her._

_The Alpha smirks as a second one comes up from behind her._

_“No one gets out,” says the first Alpha quietly._

_Then he kicks her in the stomach._

_Just then the second Alpha reaches up and inserts a key into the lock connecting the chains on the ceiling to her handcuffs. The Omega, already on her way to doubling over from being kneed – almost impossible when barely touching the ground – howls as her injured arms are suddenly released._

_Bile rises in Dean’s throat, and he’s screaming before he can reconsider._

_“Stop it!” his voice rings out, shrill and desperate and terrified._

_One of the other Alphas turns to him in surprise, like he forgot Dean was there._

_“We’re just having fun,” he says, then turns back to the girl, whose arms are still held up behind her. The Omega is whimpering in pain, so the Alpha says, “aren’t we?”_

_He gestures to the cot at the end of the room. “Can you lay down?”_

_The girl shakes her head._

_An Alpha takes a step toward her, and she recoils, agony plainly written on her face._

_“No,” she says, voice louder in pain. “My… my arms…”_

_The Alpha tuts in disappointment. “Something wrong with your arms?”_

_The Alpha pulls a knife from the inside of his coat. Dean’s breath hitches as it catches the light menacingly. His heart is thumping so fast it feels like it’s stopped completely._

_The Alpha holds the knife in front of the Omega, who seems to be in shock, taking deep breaths, eyes wide and face tear streaked._

_The Alpha tests the weight of the knife in his hand for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face._

_“This is a good knife,” he says conversationally to her. “I think I’ll use it with dinner.”_

_Then he stabs the Omega._

 

Dean wakes up slowly, still lingering on the cloudy edges of consciousness and turning over his last dream.

It takes Dean a moment to remember where he is. It’s usually the first thing he establishes when he wakes up: where he is, who he is with, and how he got there. Hard floor. Empty room around him. The lingering scent of an Omega in heat.

Dean sits up slowly, body aching in ways he suspects aren’t entirely related to sleeping on the ground.

A heaviness settles in his bones, a deep, tempting desire to just lie down and sleep until he has no other choice racks Dean’s body. His head pounds and when Dean looks down to check his watch he can see his hand shaking slightly. His whole body is quivering, like just sitting there is pushing it to the brink. Dean stares down at it with determined detachment.

He pushes it aside and stands, not bothering to go slowly. His head goes painfully light for a moment, but he stands still for a moment. _Focus,_ he tells himself.

It’s a little after 7 p.m. Dean rubs one of his eyes as he squints around the room. The sun is setting outside and the deep orange light of sunset throws light into the room. It pronounces the hints of mold and dirt gathering in the corners and along the baseboards, but Dean finds it comforting – there’s still the sun.

There’s a pressure in Dean’s head, a pulsing ache within in skull, and Dean presses his hands to his temples to soothe it. It doesn’t help, but his stomach rumbles and Dean realizes he may just be hungry.

There are canned foods in the pantry of the kitchen, all vegetables or beans or soup, but no electricity for the stove and no silverware in any of the drawers. Dean goes for the green beans, peeling back the top and picking out a few at a time from the can, and stands near the place there was probably once a kitchen table. In fact, if Dean squints, he can even see the scuffmarks along the painted wall where chairs have scraped by, and legs of chairs have moved back and forth on the dusty tiles.

The fact that this place was once someone’s home hits Dean like a force that leaves him feeling oddly hollow.

He finds himself drifting back to his dream, but rallies to distract himself, casting around for something else. The scent of Omega in heat still hangs in the air, but it doesn’t seem as heavy as it did before. Dean touches the back of his hand to his cheek and finds it warm, definitely too warm, but not burning up like during a heat.

A quick test at the kitchen sink verifies Dean’s assumption – he doesn’t have water. There goes any hope of a shower, or washing out his mouth, or shaving the stubble he’s got going. Just to be sure, Dean does another loop through his house, but it’s completely empty except for the mattress, which Dean doesn’t even approach.

Dean reaches in his pocket and pulls out his car keys, holding them in the palm of his hand as he finally lets his mind wander to Cas.

His face impossibly warms. God, he’s so embarrassing. He’d practically jumped the guy for smelling so good last night. And Castiel had been so good about it, so concerned _for_ _Dean._

Would he even show up tonight? Cas didn’t sign up for this. He was just being a good guy, doing what any decent person would do if they got a glimpse of what’s going on in the shadowy parts of the bars at night. And Dean certainly didn’t deserve even that much. He was one of the monsters.

A small, usually silent part of Dean’s brain shuts him down. Cas will come, he tells himself. Cas will come, because that just solidifies how much Dean doesn’t deserve to be around him. And Dean will cut it off, cut off all communication all over again, but this time he’ll at least do it in person. That’s got count for something.

He’s just gotta see him one more time first.

So Dean’s finger closed around his keys and he headed out the front door. He spots the Impala, bathed in the warm oranges of the setting sun, and for a moment is overwhelmingly, desperately thankful for this one thing in his life.

Dean pats the hood twice as he walks to the drivers seat before climbing in and heading to Perdition.

The bodies inside Perdition don’t seem to be moving at their normal speed, and Dean finds it difficult to look up from the floor. Simple movements seem violent, chaotic, and Dean feels nauseous. His stomach felt unsettled from the small amount of food he’d eaten, and the fever is back.

He’s got his head down at a table off to the side of the bar. He keeps his eyes open and focused on the dark melamine tabletop, finding it preferable to the whirling darkness that grips him when he closes his eyes.

Dean thinks about getting a beer, but that requires opening a tab, which creates a paper trail, so he thinks better of it and asks for a cup of water. When the bartender passes one over Dean immediately holds it to his cheek, allowing the cool condensation to calm his burning skin. It works a bit, but Dean still focuses on finding a table near an air vent.

Dean glances up every minute or so at the door. His memories are foggy, but he’s pretty sure he and Cas didn’t specify a time. Dean could be waiting for hours.

And waiting for what?, Dean’s mind keeps coming back to. To say thank you? To explain himself? To _distract_ himself?

After berating himself, Dean finally decides he doesn’t need a reason. He’s meeting up with Cas because he wants to. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that. It doesn’t have to be anything at all. Dean can just be doing something to do because he wants to do it. Those opportunities are rare enough for him.

Dean’s just began mourning the evaporation of the ice cubes in his water when he catches the scent of Alpha. He looks up to find a familiar pair of intelligent but wickedly gleaming eyes.

“Heya, hotshot,” he says, sliding into the chair across from Dean.

Dean huffs a dismissive laugh, concentrating on keeping himself together. He shakes his head.

“Hey yourself,” Dean returns, sounding bored.

“Waiting for someone?” Even though Dean’s eyes are still downcast to the table, he can practically hear the Alpha wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“Yep,” Dean says, looking pointedly at the man.

It doesn’t deter him though, as a thoughtful expression spreads across his features.

“Let me guess,” the Alpha hums theatrically, touching a contemplative finger to his chin. “Blue eyes, dark hair, kind of awkward?”

Dean freezes, eyes shooting up. The man just smirks in return.

“That would be my brother,” he explains, then extends a hand. “Gabriel.”

Dean returns the handshake, considerably less guarded now. Keeping his eyes up takes some effort, but he’s got something to distract himself.

“Is Cas ok?” Dean can’t help but ask.

“Well, that depends,” Gabriel answers casually, selecting the drink menu from the side of the table and scanning over it as he talks. “On the one hand, he’s here and is looking forward to the play date.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“On the other hand, I had to use an entire bottle of hydrogen peroxide to get his blood out of yesterday’s clothes.”

Dean feels his face go slack, and could swear that someone punched him directly in the chest.

“What?” Dean wheezes.

Gabriel tosses aside the menu, dropping all pretense of nonchalance. His eyes are very hard when he meets Dean’s.

“I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know if you’re involved, but if you do anything to get my brother hurt I will kill you.”

Dean nods slowly.

“That’s not my intention at all,” Dean confides in a small but firm voice.

“You and I both know intentions don’t matter,” Gabriel shoots back, face still gravely serious.

Dean’s not sure if his mounting panic is agitating the fever, but his vision swims under the scrutiny of Gabriel’s gaze. Dean knows he can’t respond, can’t do anything to soothe concerns for the safety of a little brother, so instead he holds steady with a look of what he hopes is sincerity. Stars start to pebble the corners of Dean’s vision, but he doesn’t break eye contact until Gabriel nods and stands.

“He’s out back,” Gabriel announces, like he’s opening a door. “He’s not allowed back in here so I get to be the messenger-slash-scary big brother.”

Dean nods back and stands slowly, trying not to appear like a total disaster.

“Thank you,” Dean says, though he’s not sure why.

“The scary big brother part is off-script, so I trust you know to keep it between you and me,” Gabriel cautions, eyes still assessing him.

Dean nods again, then forcibly releases the plastic water cup he’s been clutching with increasing pressure throughout the exchange.

Horribly aware of the sweat glistening on the back of his neck, his sweaty palms and unsteady walk, Dean turns to head toward the back door of Perdition.

\----

Cas has officially lost his mind.

He’s pacing up and down the alley behind Perdition. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have to wait until Gabriel spots Dean. _If_ Dean even comes. If Dean _can_ come.

He halts in mid-stride and presses his fingers into his eyes, willing away that line of thinking. No matter what he does, he just can’t seem to get that _look_ on Dean’s face out of his head. He looked so lost, so helpless and small. As for everything else – the people who are drugging him, the prostitution, the sudden reemergence after he instituted a radio silence – Castiel doesn’t know what to think.

He’s rubbing his eyes when he hears the door to Perdition swing open behind him, the muted sounds of music a quick crescendo before fading again as the door clicks closed.

“Hey, Lois Lane,” that voice drawls with the hint of a smile.

Castiel spins embarrassingly fast, eyes wide as he takes in Dean a handful of strides away.

He looks… awful. There really isn’t any denying that. He’s wearing the same rumpled clothes he was last night, his tanned skin’s new pallor thrown into the unforgiving light of the alley lamps, and while there are many emotions flitting across Dean’s face, the underlying discomfort is all Castiel can see.

“Dean,” Cas says, all else failing him.

Dean takes a step toward him, shoving his hands in his pockets in a deliberate show of coolness that Castiel immediately sees through. It makes him want to roll his eyes at and pull him in for a hug at the same time.

“So, I gotta ask,” Dean muses by way of introduction, tone light even as his eyes bore into Castiel’s. “What kind of unforgivable shit do you have to do to get banned from one of the worst bars in town?”

_Someone stabbed me a little bit because I was fighting them for you._

Castiel takes a step closer. He can scent Dean very clearly now and for some reason his whole body is tingling.

“Hard to remember,” Cas returns, matching Dean’s tone with a little shrug. “It happens so frequently that it’s hard to keep it straight.”

Dean takes another step and he’s very close now. Castiel is somewhat mesmerized by the green of his eyes, the thick, heady scent of _Dean_ and something else he can’t place.

“Thanks for coming,” Dean says finally.

Castiel’s mouth tips into a small smile.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, eyes darting all over Dean’s face. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved recently and even now it’s unjustly attractive.

Dean looks like he’s about to shrug it off, but instead peers at Cas for a moment. Finally, miraculously, Dean concedes, “I’ve been better.”

Castiel takes the admission in stride, and decides to be straightforward.

“Do you want – um. Does this help?” Cas tilts his head slightly to the side, exposing his neck a bit.

Castiel stomps down the smothering embarrassment and discomfort. No point in pretending he hasn’t already seen Dean far less in control than this. But there’s so much blood rushing around in Cas’ head that he loses focus after Dean’s eyes hone in on the stretch of skin.

Dean unconsciously wets his lips.

“I… I honestly don’t know,” Dean murmurs, eyes still on Cas’ neck.

Cas tips his head back straight.

“No sense in finding out here, either way,” Cas says, tearing his eyes away from Dean’s face to flick around the alley. “My brother’s apartment is close by. We can walk back, if you’re ok to leave.”

“I can do that,” Dean nods, and his look of easy relief does not go unnoticed.  
Castiel catches Dean quickly wipe some sweat at the back of his neck with his jacket sleeve. Cas raises his hand very slowly, deliberating making eye contact and asking silent permission, and presses it to Dean’s forehead.

The effect is immediate. Dean’s eyes shutter closed and he sways into the touch as Cas registers the heat on Dean’s skin. Not overheated or fevered, but… soothing to Cas’ chilled skin.

Castiel barely refrains from cupping Dean’s face in his hand, like getting closer to a furnace, and instead watches Dean’s heavy eyelids lift open.

“Your skin s’cold,” Dean mutters, a small self-deprecating smile on its lips. “Feels nice. I’ve been feeling hot.”

“Same, but opposite,” Cas says, returning the shy smile. He haltingly removes his hand from Dean’s head and straightens. Dean blinks a few times, and Cas stares at him. They nod at each other once, then Cas turns to start the walk back to Gabriel’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m the reason people have trust issues with WIPs. I’m very sorry. This part was pretty difficult for me, so I'm glad it's in the past. Now, onward!  
> Leave a comment. I'm also crying over DeanCas at birdoflastsummer.tumblr.com if you wanna join me.


	11. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for murder, nightmares and panic attack.

By the time they’d entered Gabriel’s tiny apartment, Dean had steeled himself for the worst. For an incursion. Cas was going to expect answers, for Dean to explain things. To help Cas put together the pieces. To apologize for getting him injured. And he deserves it.

But as soon as Castiel gets in Gabriel’s apartment, he toes off his shoes and keeps walking through the living room, into the tiny kitchen and opens up the refrigerator.

“You want a beer?” he calls.

Dean is still hovering near the front door.

“What?”

“Or something stronger?”

Cas grimaces as he pulls open the freezer and produces a handle of vodka. He holds it up to see how much is left, then nods definitively.

“Something stronger.”

Castiel begins pulling out plastic glasses from cabinets, plucking a handful of ice cubes from the freezer and measuring out a solid three fingers of vodka before pouring in Coke. When he’s done he looks up, surprised to see Dean still near the door. Castiel smiles a very little bit and jerks his head to beckon Dean over.

Dean approaches and takes the drink Cas has offered to him, cup bearing the Captain America shield. The smells are strange here, because it’s obviously Gabriel’s apartment, but he can detect a hint of Castiel’s sweet scent everywhere.

Cas knocks his own cup gently against Dean’s, and they both take a drink. The coolness of the ice cubes and the cup in his hand is nice, but Dean can’t help but think that it doesn’t feel as good as Cas’ cool skin against his fevered forehead.

“You spend a lot of time here?” Dean asks.

Cas takes another long, determined gulp of his drink and grimaces as it goes down.

“Enough,” he says, and his voice sounds extra gravely. “I don’t like my place.”

Dean’s mouth twitches a little as Cas peers suspiciously at his own drink.

“Rough week at work?”

Dean is smiling over the rim of his cup.

Castiel’s eyes dart up to meet his.

“Rough week,” Cas clarifies, eyes not leaving Dean’s.

Dean’s head buzzes with how blue his eyes are. How is that real? But then he mentally punches himself in the face, because Gabriel’s voice explaining Cas’ bloody clothes and his stern warning echoes in his head.

“Are you alright?” Dean asks tentatively.

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowed in confusion, and Dean’s heart aches a little at the familiar gesture.

“It’s just…” Dean begins. Oh, fuck it. Sorry Gabriel. “I heard you were… injured.”

Cas’ face clears, and he looks like he’s just barely resisting rolling his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says firmly, taking another drink. Then he looks challengingly at Dean.

“I hear you were drugged.”

Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t dance around the subject, but Dean huffs a laugh.

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” Dean smiles, toasting him.

Cas smiles back, then downs the rest of his drink.

“Did you have anything in mind when you asked me to come back to the bar tonight?” Cas asks over his shoulder as he turns to pour himself another drink.

Dean looks down and sloshes his glass around, vividly remembering the powerful relief that rocketed through him just being around Cas in that bathroom. The way he was able to start thinking straight like he was broken out of a trance.

Even now, with Cas is standing close, Dean feels almost normal. Still overly warm, but amazingly clear-headed. So he thinks what he really wants is to crawl up and bury his nose in Cas’ neck for about five years.

Instead, he casually says, “Not particularly. Just wanted to hang out.”

Dean looks up to see that Cas had turned to watch him answer, vodka in hand. He looks disappointed, and Dean feels itchy all over under the weight of that look.

His brain enters into overdrive, weighing what he can and can’t afford to tell him. He knows he should be cutting it off. No way is he entangling Cas in this. He shouldn’t have even come back here to begin with, but Cas smelled so good, skin so cool where he can’t stop burning up, and he was so… Cas.

“What is your opinion on the new Star Trek movies?”

Cas’ words halt Dean’s frantic thoughts, and he blinks. He knows they remade them, but he’s never seen them. He doesn’t understand technology enough to download them on Crowley’s shitty laptop and an afternoon at a movie theater has always seemed hilariously out of the question, so he’s ignored their existence like it’s his job.

He considers lying to Cas, saying something vague like, _Well they’ll never measure up to the original series, but they weren’t bad,_ and hoping Cas leaves it alone.

But it’s not a lie he has to tell, and Dean realizes that he doesn’t want to lie to Cas. Not if he doesn’t have to, at least.

“Never saw them.”

Cas nods, like he knew that already.  
  
“How do you feel about getting drunk and watching them?”

There really wasn’t a choice for Dean.

“Best idea I’ve heard in a long time.”

 

The vodka goes with them to the couch in Gabriel’s living room, where they both sprawl on opposite ends of the couch. Dean has a hard time following certain parts, because Cas keeps giggling whenever Bones is on screen and making stupid jokes about Éomer and the Rohirrim riding horses around the Enterprise, which sends Dean sniggering into his cup. That’s only after a heated debate breaks out about the validity of establishing an alternate universe.

“Think of how restrictive it would be if the timeline had to remain the same!” Cas argues passionately.

“But it’s Star Trek’s universe, and they just threw out the book!” Dean huffed, not caring how dramatic he’s acting. “No way anyone from the original Star Trek would be on board with this.”

Cas looks amused but redirects his attention to the screen, which makes Dean pout more.

Dean throws a pillow at Cas when Leonard Nimoy shows up about an hour later.

“God damnit,” he mutters, ignoring Cas’ deep, pleased chuckles.

The vodka runs empty with Dean welcoming the distraction and Cas tackling the task with enthusiasm. It feels a bit like hanging out with Cas at Saints and Sinners. It’s easy, stolen, like something Dean shouldn’t be allowed to have.

The fever of Dean’s skin has simmered under the alcohol’s influence enough to push it from his mind. At one point Cas fetches a bottle of wine, clutching it in his long, elegant fingers that Dean very much likes to look at.  
  
“Gabriel’s not classy enough to have wine glasses,” Cas explains, ignorant to Dean’s staring as he shuffles behind coffee table. He’s little unsteady before falling back on the couch, then leans on an elbow over the vacant middle couch cushion to refill Dean’s plastic cup.

“What’s not classy about this?” Dean juts out his pinkie in a delicate grasp on the plastic cup.

Cas snorts in a way that shouldn’t be attractive, but his nose gets awfully scrunchy and his eyes get wrinkly and there’s just nothing Dean can do about that. Cas grabs the blanket slung over the back of the couch and begins to wrap himself up in it.

“You are absolutely right,” Cas says fervently. “You’re the picture of nobility.”

Cas’ tone is mocking, but Dean thinks his expression is warm. He looks so soft and content in his blanket burrito, and Dean can’t find it in himself to look away. Eventually Cas straightens back up from where he had splayed over the middle third of the couch, retreating back to his end.

 

By the time his cup has been filled with wine for the third time, Dean has a definitive tilt. His whole body is slumped to the right, head pleasantly nestled between the back cushions. He’s following most of the movie, but generally content to just relax.

His arm is slung across the middle cushion, loosely gripping the Captain America glass when he feels cool fingers brush against his own. The cup is being removed from his hand, and a glass of water is put back in.

“Where’d you get this?” Dean asks, bewildered as he looks at his own hand.

“Beamed it,” he hears Cas reply, somewhere to his right.

“You left?” Dean doesn’t know why he asks that, but there it is.

“Just for a second,” Cas’ deep voice returns.

Dean lifts the glass to his lips and takes a generous gulp, savoring the cold. He closes his eyes and presses the chilled glass to his forehead for a long moment. The back of his neck feels sticky with sweat, and he leans forward a bit to run the cup across his skin there.

“Dean?”

He turns his head, still lodged between the cushions, to peer over at Cas.

Castiel looks to be in much the same position, body also leaning in toward Dean on the couch. It looks a bit like they’re peaking at each other from either side of the middle cushion, and Dean can only see one of Cas’ bright blue eyes, so he chuckles at the sight.

The half of Cas’ face that Dean can see scrunches up in confusion. With what appears to be great effort, Castiel sits up and slides over a bit, collapsing into the middle couch cushion and now very close.

“Dean,” he huffs again.

Cas is a grumpy drunk, and his pouty seriousness makes Dean snicker more. Then Dean feels Cas’ hand, made awkward by drinking, grasp around his own and wrestles the cup from him.

“Hey,” Dean says, no real heat behind the word, “that’s mine.”

“Dean, are you still hot?”

Cas isn’t slurring his words, but his voice is so wrecked that Dean knows he’s not sober.

“’Course I’m hot.” Dean gives him with a wide, cocky grin.

Castiel reaches over without hesitation and rests the back of his slender fingers against Dean’s forehead. It feels like a million years ago, but Dean immediately remembers the rush of chilling relief that the skin-to-skin contact brought in the alley behind Perdition.

Dean sighs without reservation, eyes closing. Under the cool press of Cas’ fingers, the heat of Dean’s skin simultaneously flares and cools.

He can’t help it. Dean reaches for Cas’ wrist and encircles it. His grip is loose, but enough to let Cas know he wants him to stay there. Dean nudges his head forward just a bit into the cooling touch, intoxicated.

Dean feels Cas’ fingers move hesitantly, not breaking contact with his skin as they slide over to cup Dean’s face. Dean’s face heats in more way than one.

One of Cas’ thumbs strokes Dean’s cheek, small sweeping movements back and forth that Dean seems aware of on a cellular level. He’s suddenly quite certain that no one has ever touched him so gently before, so Dean fights to open his eyes and look at Cas’ face.

Cas is very close to him now, and his expression looks pinched. Concerned? Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Cas’ usual stoic face looks quite plainly tender. Dean is also sure that he can identify every shade of blue in Cas’ eyes. A heat erupts in Dean and spreads in his whole body. He parts his lips and sucks in a breath, smothered.

“Dean, why are you so hot?” Cas murmurs, his cool fingers radiating relief onto Dean’s burning skin, not pulling away or stopping their gentle movements.

“I don’t know,” Dean says honestly. He smells so _good_.

A long moment passes in which Dean stares at Cas and Cas’ eyes flicker all over his face, hand still gently cupping it. Dean can’t even be bothered to feel self-conscious about the pebbling sweat on his neck or the way his face is probably flushed. Cas is looking at him like he’s important.

The idea that he might be important to Cas pierces him.

“Does this help?” Cas asks, interrupting his thoughts yet again.

Dean just nods, then grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles, looking down but too weak to move away from Cas’ hand.

“For what?” Castiel asks, shifting closer. Crisp, minty scents permeate the air and Dean sucks in a breath.

“That I’m such a mess,” Dean chuckles humorlessly.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice soft. He withdraws his hand and Dean crumbles a little inside, but then Cas is reaching out to take both Dean’s hands in his own. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t believe that any of this is your fault.”

Dean looks up at him. Cas’ skin is very cool on his hands.

He parts his lips and takes a breath, but the front door swings open and Gabriel enters.

“I’m just saying that that he could run an academy on shade throwing,” Gabriel’s voice booms over the forgotten movie in the living room.

Dean and Cas turn to see Gabriel talking on the phone, then watch a look of only mild surprised cross his face at seeing his brother and Dean sitting on the couch together in his apartment.

Dean, for his part, sits back a bit from Cas, even though he’s not the one who has shuffled across the couch.

“Gabriel,” Cas says to Dean, who nods in acknowledgment.

“Let me call you back,” Dean hears Gabriel say.

Dean looks down at their joined hands, feeling very small and still choking on the words that weren’t able to get out. The moment is over though, and he doesn’t know when he’ll get it back.

But Cas’ thumb is still working over Dean’s skin in soothing little movements, and his heart flops weakly in his chest.

“Star Trek, huh?” Gabriel observes.

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, face overly serious. “We are inebriated and you need to drive Dean home.”

“Sheesh, bossy, isn’t he?” Gabriel says to Dean.

“Actually, I drove to Perdition and can drive back,” Dean says.

“Dean, you can’t drive.”

“How ‘bout I drive your car home and Cas follows us to drive us back?” Gabriel offers.

Dean firmly says, “Cas can’t drive,” just as Castiel says, “Sounds good,” and then they glare at each other.

“I can drive,” Cas says, looking like he could smite Dean.  
  
“Then so can I.”  
  
“No, you can’t.”

“Boys?” Gabriel cuts in.

“Why can you drive and I can’t?” Dean challenges, ignoring Gabriel.

“I had less to drink.”

“Not true.”

Cas’ eyes narrow at Dean.

“Fine. I had more water.”

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Gabriel throws out, arms spreading dramatically.

“If you’re sober, then recite the alphabet backwards,” Dean dares Cas.

“You do it.”

“Not the same.”  
  
“It is literally the exact same thing, Dean.”

“Guys…” Gabriel interrupts.  
  
“No, I mean I can’t even do that when I’m sober.”

A moment of silence and then Cas starts giggling. A broad grin breaks out on Dean’s face just looking at it.

“Z…” Cas prompts.

“That’s totally the easy one!” Dean pouts.

“Fine.” A pause. “Y.”

Dean’s face scrunches up in mental anguish, brain processing slowly.

“Q-R-S, T-U-V,” Dean hums to himself, “W, X, Y and…. X!”

Cas is laughing openly now. Dean has the urge to do a fist pump, but when his brain refocuses on his hands he realizes that they’re still firmly entwined with Cas’. Have they been there this whole time?

In his drunkenness and stupidity Dean looks down at his hands in surprise. Cas’ hands are cool and soft against Dean’s heated skin, fingers slotted between one another’s. Castiel’s own hands go rigid now that they’ve been spotted, like they were caught in the act, so Dean thinks he probably forgot they were there too.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”  
  
Gabriel’s voice finally reaches Dean and Cas’ ears, and they both whip their heads up from their hands to look at Cas’ older brother, who is looking impressively exasperated. Cas nods haltingly in response, then withdraws his hands from Dean, looking slightly guilty. When he stands he’s only a little wobbly.

“Not sober,” Dean mutters pointedly under his breath, and Cas swats at him before following Gabriel into the kitchen.

Dean is immediately unsettled at not having Cas so close. His scent hangs in the air teasingly, but only a hint at the real thing. Dean sits there, feeling dumb and worried by these thoughts. He looks down at his hands again, missing the refreshing coldness that he’d had.

Overall, not a terribly successful attempt to cut Castiel out of his life.

Dean tries not to listen, but the kitchen is barely closed off from the living room.

“We were not holding hands,” a deep, grumpy voice rumbles.

“You expect me to believe you two were playing pat-a-cake cake?”

Dean rubs a hand over his face. He can feel the stubble there and a wave of self-consciousness washes over him. He probably looks like shit. And he’s not like Cas –– he can’t pull off the adorable bedhead and stubble look. Not to mention his clothes, or body odor.

More muffled talking and Dean looks back at the movie, long forgotten, to see the credits rolling. He almost can’t believe Castiel was able to distract him from a Star Trek movie. They’ll have to pay better attention next time.

And… next time? Dean considers this. He doesn’t want to write Castiel off, but he knows that’s selfish. Cas only escaped by chance the last time Alastair’s men were after him, and he’s not eager to test them again. And yet… Castiel’s grumpy face and cool skin and blue, blue eyes swim into his vision and his chest hurts.

“Dean.”

He looks up to see Castiel and Gabriel walking back from the kitchen. Cas looks slightly distressed, but determined. A beat of silence passes, and Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Cas?”

He looks like he’s steeling himself.

“We would like to know – well, actually it was Gabriel’s idea, though I support it… would you like to stay here tonight?”

Cas’ face is all over the board. Resolute, wide-eyed, cautious and brazen. Dean almost couldn’t follow what he was asking because he was watching his face.

“Crash here?” he repeats, like an idiot.

Cas nods jerkily.

“You are welcome to stay on the couch, as Gabriel doesn’t have a second bedroom,” Cas hurries to add.

Gabriel is staring at the ceiling.

“No way, man,” Dean says emphatically.

Dean stands up so he can be at eye level, and hey, the room doesn’t even spin. Not a lot anyway. But when he refocuses on Cas, Dean is met with mortified blue eyes.

Dean utterly folds.

“I mean, yeah, I guess you’re right. I should stay. But there’s no way I’m taking the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor,” Dean adds, then quieter, “thanks.”

Cas just squints.

“No. You’re a guest here.”

“So are you.”

“Gabriel is my brother. You’re more of a guest.”

“Cas…”

“Jesus Christ, you two are impossible,” Gabriel exhales, throwing up his hands, and Dean forgot he was there. “As master of this house, I declare that you–” he points at Dean, “are sleeping on the couch, and you–” he points at Cas, “get floor duty in my room.”

Cas throws Dean a smirk, and Dean glowers.

“Fine,” Dean mutters.

Gabriel sniffs victoriously and turns on his heel to go back to his room. Cas is moving about the room now, grabbing the throw blanket that he had cocooned around him earlier.

“He’s so dramatic,” Cas says in a low voice. “But he’ll make an amazing breakfast in the morning. Honestly, I think that’s the best part of sharing the gene pool with him.”

Dean smiles a bit, watching Castiel hold up the blanket to grab the ends and lay it down neatly on the couch. He grabs the back cushions, which he and Cas were just smooched between, and stacks them on the recliner. He reaches for one of the pillows and glares at it for a moment before turning to Dean.

“Is this a sufficient pillow? I don’t think you want one of Gabriel’s. They’re best left for science.”

Dean huffs a laugh.

“Of course it’s fine, Cas.”

Cas lays the pillow down very gently at the end of the couch and peers critically at the makeshift bed. It doesn’t look like much, but it beats the floor that Dean would be sleeping on in Alastair’s shack by a county mile. But no matter how much Dean wants to reassure Cas, he can’t tell him that.

“Thank you,” Dean says quietly, looking down at the couch instead of at Castiel. He sees Cas lift his head to look at him, but keeps his eyes down.  
“You’re welcome to anything you need, you know. Just ask.”

And then Cas reaches a hand out and lays it on Dean’s forearm reassuringly. His cooling touch seeps into Dean’s bones and he can feel the tension melt away.

He gives Cas a wobbly smile before sitting down on the couch and working the blanket around him. Cas walks around, still slightly drunk, turning off the lights and double-checking the front door dead bolt and lock. He refills both their glasses with water before going to bed, because he’s awesome, and then shuffles down the hall to grab another pillow and blanket for himself.

Dean waits for Cas to prepare his own bed, parallel to the couch on the other side of the coffee table, before they settle down.

Dean should really be feeling way more awkward about this, but his buzz is lulling him to sleep and the exhaustion is too tempting. By the time he mutters goodnight, Dean is laying down and has the blanket wrapped around himself. The microfleece blanket is soft and smells so much like Cas that Dean’s head swims a bit, and he pulls it up to his chin.

 

_Dean is staring down, adrenalin pumping through his veins and heart hammering. His hands stopped shaking a long time ago, and his head and body feel eerily light._

_Below him, an Alpha sits on the floor fighting to regain consciousness._

_He’s groaning, clutching his side, face screwed up and sweaty with pain and confusion._

_“What the –”_

_The Alpha stops, eyes flying open in naked panic. His eyes still when they land on Dean._

_“You,” he breathes, and Dean can see various things twitching on him._

_He winces again, and hand pressed awkwardly to his side runs red with blood through his nightshirt. He starts, crying out as his hand lands on the blood-soaked cotton of his nightshirt._

_“Can you lay down?” Dean asks, voice calm._

_The Alpha’s eyes fly back up to Dean, anger and fear and something feral. His scent is thick, suffocating, but the tacky copper scent of blood twists and states through Dean’s senses._

_“What is this?” he spits, screams. “What are you doing?”_

_“Something wrong with your arms?” Dean asks._

_The anger dissolves, the Alpha flinches like he’s been burned. His arms flail a bit, as if testing themselves, eyes going unfocused as he searches for any pain other than the gaping wound on his side. Then he looks back up at Dean._

_“Alastair is going to hear about this,” he threatens, but Dean knows its hollow._

_Dean pulls the knife from his inside jacket pocket. The Alpha goes still, eyes moving up and down it._

_“Is that – how –”_

_“This is a good knife,” Dean says, eyes tunneling to this moment, these words, the knife, the scent. He lowers himself to sit on his haunches, almost at eye level with the Alpha. He waits a moment, glaring at the Alpha’s eyes. “Think I’ll use it with dinner.”_

_And Dean stabs the Alpha._

_\----_

Something pulls Cas back from a dream. One moment he’s running, searching, but no matter how hard he runs he seems to be going in slow motion. Panic he doesn’t recognize wells inside him, frustration.

Then he’s on the blurry edges of consciousness. Realness drips into his awareness: floor, pillow, cold, Dean.

He knows the smell, magnetizing and sweet, rich smells of fruits and honey, but something is wrong. He recognizes it immediately and is suddenly awake.

Distress is pouring into the air, Dean’s scent marred with something like vinegar and Cas is sitting up before he realizes what he’s doing.

The room is dark, curtains pulled over Gabriel’s small double window, but even before Castiel’s eyes fully adjust he spots the shape of Dean's body huddled under the blanket and scents the sweat on Dean’s skin. He makes out the thin sheen of it across Dean’s forehead and cheeks where he’s laying a few feet away on the couch. His head is resting on the pillow and body sprawled over the cushions, but it’s clear he’s not at ease, and the muscles in his neck and arms looking pulled taut, rigidity causing his brows to crease even in his dreams.

And he is dreaming, eyes flinching slightly. He looks scared.

Castiel moves without realizing he’d decided to do so, throwing off his blanket and rushing to Dean. He stands above him, his scent so strong it’s almost suffocating, and Castiel realizes heat is wafting off Dean like a fire. He collects himself enough to resist a desperate need to shake Dean wildly, freeing him of whatever is happening, and instead gently rests his hand on Dean’s too-warm shoulder.

Dean seems to tense more, impossibly, for a moment, before it passes and his shadowed mossy eyes fly open.

Castiel watches Dean’s pupils contract where they stare unseeing in front of him. He blinks once, twice, then Dean exhales an explosive breath before sucking in more air, near-panicked.

“Hey, hey,” Cas says, voice as soothing as he can make it because something is surely trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Dean’s eyes tear over to meet Cas’, and Castiel starts ever to gently move his hand up and down Dean’s fevered arm.

“You’re ok,” Cas mutters.

Castiel thinks Dean might shake his head, but Dean keeps breathing deeply, in through his nose and out his mouth. Cas quickly moves to sit on the edge of the couch, not intruding on Dean’s space but resolved to be close.

Dean’s flushed, drenched in sweat, and the shoulder-to-bicep path under Cas’ palm is a furnace to his chilled hands. Dean is still staring ahead of him, eyes wide, and Castiel feels inexplicably dizzy, his own heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Minutes pass and Dean’s breathing levels. The tension drains slowly, Dean’s muscles uncoiling bit by bit until he looks almost relaxed. Cas thinks he still looks horribly vulnerable, but his scent has lost the jagged edges. Castiel’s whole skin, from his toes to his forehead, feels like it’s been dipped in ice.

It makes it hard then, when Dean finally, slowly looks at Cas, to withdraw his hand. Something small crosses Dean’s face the moment Castiel stops.

“No, you’re – you can keep doing that,” Dean says, so quiet.

Cas’ hand is back instantly, but his touch is more insistent.

“Dean, you’re very warm,” Castiel says lowly, not sure if this is entirely a safe conversation but feeling confident it’s not as bad as whatever Dean was dreaming about.

Dean just looked drained.

“I know. Why are you so cold?”

Cas’ hand pauses where it was trailing over the curve of Dean’s bicep. He is cold. His whole body seems to tingle in recognition.

Cas reaches his other hand, slowly, to cup Dean’s face. The skin is so warm, slightly damp with sweat, but _soft._ Dean’s face falls once Castiel’s hand slips into place, going boneless under his touch.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, whole body shifting a little bit but not pulling away.

Cas swallows. “New rule. You’re not allowed to say that."

Is it ok to lighten the mood? Castiel thinks he might explode if he doesn’t. It’s almost impossible not to wrap Dean up in his arms and nuzzle his jaw until everything else stops.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches, and his eyes open and soften on Cas.

“Ok, then let’s try this.”

Dean moves to sit up. Cas’ arms fall away reluctantly, and he watches Dean’s movements closely. Dean arranges himself so he’s sitting back against the armrest, legs still extended across the couch, and he fixes Cas with a stare where he sits perched on the cushion.

“I’m a prostitute,” Dean announces with a sigh.

Cas just gives one small nod.

“I know.”

Dean looks pained, but resigned.

“I'm -- I’m in this… group,” Dean continues wearily. “They’re the ones that drugged me.”

Cas doesn’t say anything at first. That thing is back inside his chest. Dean bristles in the silence, but Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on the man in front of him.

“Why did they drug you?” Cas asks eventually.

“I wasn’t cooperating.”

Cas tilts his head.

“Cooperating how?”

“They – they don’t like me doing things,” Dean hedges. Castiel’s face hardens, and Dean adds, “they like keeping tabs on me. Um… a lot.”

Cas’ stony expression doesn’t budge.

“And I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to… you know,” Dean trails off into a mutter, eyes falling away from Castiel’s. Castiel thinks he knows where this is going, and places it aside for a moment.

“Dean.”

Castiel reaches out and places his hand on Dean’s forearm, taking comfort in the warmth radiating from him.

“You do not deserve this. Thank you for telling me.”

Dean nods quickly, confusion and gratitude and a million other expressions and scents blossoming and forming, changing.

“No problem, Cas,” Dean chokes.

Cas just keeps gently rubbing Dean’s arm, content to sit in the darkness for a while, Dean’s warmth simmering to a flickering fire and sleep-soft with exhaustion and something that smells like relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ya go. I’ve kept these losers apart for too long.  
> Tumblr's [here](birdoflastsummer.tumblr.com) if you wanna cry with me over DeanCas.


	12. Cinnamon

Cas wakes up the next morning with a painful kink in his neck. He straightens slowly, face screwed up as he corrects from where his head had been lolled awkwardly to the side for most of the night. It only takes him a moment to remember where he is and why he’s here, because immediately the calming scent of Dean and… – yes, that’s the touch of his skin, flutters into his consciousness.

Cas looks down to where his hand is loosely wrapped around Dean’s wrist. He’d lost track of how long he’d sat after Dean had a hard time falling asleep again. Cas had known what Dean was already, but the magnitude of Dean actually admitting it was not lost on him. The other part, the part about _the group,_ left Cas’ mind buzzing too much to fall asleep for a long time either. But it seemed the small touch of Cas’ hand to Dean’s wrist calmed both of them.

Cas waits for a few moments, content to just _feel_ Dean’s skin under his touch. It’s heated still, but not suspiciously so. It actually just feels sleep warm, soft and calm and safe. Cas’ eyes flick up to where Dean half-lays across the couch. His eyes are closed and his long eyelashes fan across his face, and he looks so peaceful and innocent that Cas feels something huge growing in his chest. They’re only touching where Cas’ hand rests around his wrist, but Dean’s arm is clearly offered toward Cas, like he wanted to make sure Cas could reach him and his body stayed that way even in sleep.

That huge feeling starts to grow claws so Cas very carefully lets go of Dean’s wrist and stands slowly as not to wake Dean. He looks down at where Dean’s wrapped in Gabriel’s spare blanket, the edges pulled up almost to his chin. The hand that Cas released jerked slightly in his sleep and Dean’s eyebrows pinch for a moment, unsettled and unhappy about losing the touch, but the moment passes and Dean sleeps on.

Coffee, Cas thinks determinedly, tearing himself away from the picture before him and walking to the kitchen. He starts a new pot and checks to see that Gabriel’s still asleep before slipping into the bathroom to relieve himself and check the bandaging of his ribs. Cas ends up carefully peeling off the gauze pad and entertains the notion of cleaning it out again, but opts instead to dab some Neosporin on a new bandage and taping on the new dressing. When he looks up at his reflection, tired eyes look back at him. The bruising on his arms and neck isn’t as bad as Cas thought it’d be, but he still pulls down the sleeves before shuffling back out to the kitchen.

Cas pours himself what he knows will be the first of many cups of coffee and sits gingerly at the kitchen table, drinking liberally while he tentatively tries to plan his day. His mind keeps slipping back to the Omega in his living room though. _I’m in this group,_ Cas keeps replaying in his head. _They’re the ones that drugged me._ Cas’ blood pumps a little faster as he turns over the information without the immediate need of keeping Dean calm.

Why? Why would someone stay in this scenario? Is Dean being manipulated into staying? Is it more direct than that? Is it possible that he has such a low opinion of himself that he doesn’t think he even _should_ get out?

Cas’ arm is unmoving, the coffee mug hovering a few inches away from his mouth as he mulls this.

Of course Dean doesn’t think he deserves better. The thought fills Cas with a kind of acute, piercing sadness that he can’t quite explain.

Cas is staring unseeing in front of him, the coffee still a few inches from his mouth, when Dean bursts into the room. Cas’ eyes are immediately focus on the tension in Dean’s posture, not at all like the sleep-loose, warm man he’d just left on his couch. Dean’s eyes scan the kitchen with more intensity than a man who was sleeping peacefully a few moments ago should be capable of achieving. It takes a moment for Dean’s eyes to make it to Cas. When he finally gets there and Cas is staring back at wide green eyes, Dean looks plainly relieved. His shoulders sag and the tension dissolves from his face and arms, and all of a sudden he looks completely drained. Cas is so transfixed on the picture before him that he almost drops his coffee.

Dean’s look of relief passes quickly and Cas can almost see Dean putting back up his walls. He straightens and attempts to run a hand through his hair, which is unfairly ruffled. Cas prickles at the thought that Dean might be uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s feeling embarrassed about staying the night? Maybe he thinks Cas’ opinion of him has somehow changed from the night before? Cas has to take a deep breath to calm himself before tipping his coffee mug toward Dean.

“Coffee?” Cas offers.

His voice is scratchy from disuse but doesn’t betray anything.

Dean blinks and looks at the coffee machine before looking back at Cas.

“I’m actually okay,” Dean says hesitantly, shuffling his weight back and forth on his feet. “Thanks, though.”

Oh God, he’s going to leave, Cas thinks with more panic than he really should feel. Dean’s looking for some excuse to hit the road, some excuse not to prolong the visit. And then… Cas doesn’t even know how to contact him again. He’s going to leave and go back to some life that Cas can’t let him –

“Is Gabriel here?”

Dean’s voice breaks through Cas’ steamrolling thoughts.

“Yes, still asleep,” Cas says, before adding, “lazy asshole.”

Dean looks a little unsure of himself, but he glances around the kitchen.

“Could I uh – would you like me to make breakfast for everyone?” Dean asks nervously.

“You want to make us breakfast?” Cas repeats like _the idiot that he is._

“If you’re okay with it,” Dean rushes to add, taking an abortive step forward as if he was asking for something vastly more important than to make a meal.

“I believe, as the host, I am supposed to be offering to do that for you,” Cas says slowly, eyebrows pinched as he glares at his coffee.

Why didn’t he think of that? _God, I’m the worst_ , he thinks petulantly.

Cas can feel Dean roll his eyes.

“And as the guest, what I say goes,” Dean says with finality.

Cas runs a hair through his hair absently, eyeing Gabe’s refrigerator.

“I really have no idea what kind of food Gabriel has. Our breakfast might be guzzling chocolate syrup. I know for a fact that he puts M&M’s in his cereal.”

Conflicting looks of respect and disgust battle on Dean’s face as he walks over the refrigerator and opens it. He spends a suspicious amount of time poking around, moving things a few inches to the left and then the right, opening all the drawers and lifting up the butter tray. He doesn’t remove anything but Cas can sense… _something_ different in his smell.

Cas shuffles over, curiosity winning him over, both his hands curled protectively around his coffee mug.

“Anything good?” Cas asks.

Dean grins at him over his shoulder.

“Not really, unless you count the world famous Dean Omelets as good,” Dean says casually.

Dean turns to face Cas and leans confidently against the countertop. Cas just glares suspiciously at him over the rim of his coffee.  
“World famous, hmm?” Cas grumbles.

“All five ingredients of it,” Dean nods.

“Gabriel has five omelet ingredients in there?” Cas mutters with genuine surprise.

“I think because some of them double as baking ingredients,” Dean explains, pulling out the eggs and a stick of butter.

He holds them in his hands and stares down at them, then back at Cas. There’s uncertainty there, but also excitement. Something pulls at Cas’ chest.

“Well, I can’t pass up a world-famous meal, can I?” Cas asks quietly.

Cas is treated to a quick smile before Dean looks back down at the eggs and butter, moving to gently place them on the small counter space and then burying himself in the refrigerator again. Dean pulls out green onions, bell peppers and tomatoes, carefully arranging them as he sets up a cooking station. Cas refills his coffee and helps Dean when he asks for the location of a cutting board and knives. Cas then gives the skillet a quick wash after he pulls it out from under the stove and sets the table with silverware and some Dunkin’ Donuts napkins that he finds.

Dean moves through the kitchen cautiously, mindful not to make too big of a mess and not to take up much space, but his movements preparing the meal seem confident, determined and practiced. Cas probably would’ve been content to watch Dean prepare the breakfast, just enjoying the gentle, almost reverent way he handles the every day items, but he’s not _quite_ willing to creep Dean out, so he retrieves the newspaper and settles down at the kitchen table with it. Cas means to stay out of Dean’s way, but Dean is immediately distracted by Cas’ return.

“Is that your newspaper?” Dean asks, walking over with the bowl he’s using to whisk the eggs.

“Technically it’s Gabriel’s,” Cas replies absently, slipping it from the plastic wrap it was delivered in.

“I mean it’s _yours,”_ Dean says meaningfully, nudging Cas’ arm carefully as he move to stand next to him. “The one you work for.”

“Oh,” is Cas’ reply. They both look down at the masthead. “Yeah, it’s my newspaper.”

Dean starts to scan the stories visible above the fold.

“Did you write anything in it?” he asks excitedly, eyes bright.

Dean looks like he wants to pick it up and inspect it, but his hands are occupied by the bowl of eggs. Cas tries not to grin at his interest.

“Just a city council preview,” Cas says, flipping the paper over to show the bottom half of the front page so Dean can see the headline and his by-line. Dean leans over and stares at it for a moment.

“That’s awesome!” Dean exclaims genuinely, straightening back up and smiling wide at Cas. A moment later he lowers himself back over the paper to examine it more closely. “Front page too, man!”

Cas can’t fight the grin as he takes in Dean’s enthusiasm. Cas had lost count of how many front-page stories he’s had, and it hardly seemed like something to get excited about anymore. Dean’s excitement was… endearing, to say the least.

“I’m gonna read it,” Dean says determinedly as he straightens again.

Cas’ grin is still on his face and Dean smiles back broadly before turning back to the stove and continuing to whisk his eggs.

Dean makes Cas explain all the background information about his city council story, which sends Cas sidetracking into small stories about the inner-drama of the councilmembers –– who supports whom, which developers donated money to whose campaign and why it’s causing friction now. Cas isn’t used to being able to talk openly about his work, not really having anyone who was willing to listen. (Naomi definitely doesn’t count.) But even though Dean mostly had his back to Cas as he shuffles back and forth between cutting up vegetables and preparing the skillet, he asks a ton of questions –

( _“The Planning and Zoning Commission has been discussing it in executive session, though those aren’t included in the meeting minutes--”_

_“Why not?” Dean seems personally offended by this._

_“Because they’re allowed to discuss certain confidential issues in private,” Cas explains._

_“But you figured it out anyway. Hell yeah,” Dean grins over his shoulder and sending Cas grumbling into his coffee about how Naomi helped him.)_

– and quicker than he expected Cas’ senses are being assaulted by the smells of eggs and vegetables coming from Dean’s omelets.

“Dean, not to be dramatic, but if you don’t serve those omelets soon I will spoil the plot of the next Star Trek movie,” Cas warns, watching Dean over the edge of his newspaper.

Dean scoops the omelet ever so carefully onto the plate and tops it off with salsa, inspecting it carefully. Cas expects Dean to turn around with that cocky grin on his face, but instead he looks uneasy.

“Looks about right,” Dean says to himself, chuckling humorlessly. He looks focused, and maybe a little bit nervous.

Cas lowers the newspaper and places it to the side.

“Dean they smell delicious, and I’m sure they’re going to be great,” Cas says, watching Dean’s face the whole time he walks over carrying the two plates.

Dean doesn’t reply, but sits down next to Cas and gently sets the plate in front of Cas first and then himself.

“You know I was definitely overselling them on being world famous,” Dean laughs in self-deprecation. Cas’ eyebrows pinch. “They’re probably not very good.”

“Dean,” Cas cuts him off, picking up his fork and pointing it at him. “If these taste half as good as they smell it will be the best meal I’ve had in months.”

Dean still looks unsure, but picks up his own fork and together they dig in. As soon as they both finish their first bite Dean starts talking about all the ingredients he could’ve used to make it better and all the different kinds of omelets he knows how to make and maybe he’s talking about some other things but Cas doesn’t hear any of it because he’s pretty sure he’s in heaven.

“That,” Cas begins, setting down his fork with a thud once he’s cleared his plate, “was amazing.”

Dean’s eyes have never seemed more green as they are now, large as saucers in surprise and tentative eagerness as assess Cas’ face. Immediately he schools his expression.

“It was alright,” Dean shoots down, but his own plate is cleared as well.

Cas doesn’t even know when he had time to eat all that, considering he was talking almost the whole time. The realization that Dean probably eats quickly for a reason momentarily strangles Cas before he pushes it aside because Dean has started talking again.

“… Spinach is also pretty alright in omelets,” Dean is saying. “I mean, they were never my favorite, not enough calories for me, I’m more of a bacon person, but Sammy insisted.”

Dean stops dead, shocked and frankly looking like someone struck him. The quiet falls heavily over the kitchen now that Dean’s flustered prattling has abruptly stopped. _Sammy_. Cas turns the name over his mind but can’t come up with a single occasion that Dean has brought up anyone named Sammy. By the look on Dean’s face it doesn’t look like something that slips mildly, but Cas can’t really analyze the situation further. Dean is giving out all sorts of distressed scents, overwhelming sadness and grief and pain, and Cas, without really telling his body to, reaches over and grasps Dean’s arm.

Dean blinks down at it rapidly then up at Cas in surprise. Dean’s skin seems to flare under the touch. Cas knows on some level that he should probably pull away, but he doesn’t actually think he’s capable of it at the moment. The ache that seemed palpable a few moments ago ebbs a bit.

“We can go grocery shopping and pick out some different ingredients, if you want,” Cas says simply.

A corner of Dean’s mouth twitches up a smile, whether about the groceries or because Cas isn’t pressing _it_ , he’s not sure.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Cas reluctantly lets go of Dean’s arm and grabs both their plates to start clearing the table. Dean jumps up to help but Cas glares at him.

“Hey, you let me crash here, the least I can do is help,” Dean argues half-heartedly.

“No, the least you can do is absolutely nothing because you don’t owe me anything,” Cas rolls his eyes.

“I was the one who made the mess.”  
“Because you were cooking me food,” Cas retorts, then immediately mentally cringes at the implication that the food was just for _him._ Something inside him that he hates was secretly deeply pleased that Dean would be comfortable enough to do that with him. He coughs and adds, “not exactly a burden.”

Dean looks around helplessly, so Cas sighs.

“Gabriel’s probably is going to wake up soon. If you want to use the shower, feel free.”

Dean blinks. “Oh, I’m okay. Thanks.”

Cas scowls at him and Dean crumbles a bit, eventually giving in and begrudgingly accepting full range on the shower products. Once he’s left the room Cas stands at the sink halfheartedly scrubbing at the plates, his mind turning over the enigma who stayed on his couch overnight. He leaves Gabriel’s omelet out and starts on the skillet, deciding that he wants Dean to stay as long as he can.

 

\----

 

Apparently all of Cas’ bottles and soap are kept in the caddy hanging from the showerhead, while Gabriel can’t be bothered and his own bottles litter the edges of the shower or the floor. Once he’s standing under the flow of water, Dean tries not to overthink why he feels compelled to give the shampoo a sniff.

Dean just wants to know what it smells like. It _is_ going to be put on his head, after all. Nevermind that it is also probably, technically, what Cas’ hair would smell like.

Dean doesn’t care about that.

(It smells a little like cinnamon.)

Dean lathers up a washcloth with the soap and begins to scrub every inch of his body within an inch of its life. When he massages in the shampoo he takes extra time to work it into his hairline and scrub it behind his ears and everywhere that he suspects might be looking a little ragged lately.

Dean feels a little embarrassed by how long the shower ends up lasting, but he’s warmed by a real confidence that Cas probably couldn’t care less. Which is weird. He’s stayed the night at this guy’s apartment – his _brother_ ’s apartment, actually – and now he’s taking a shower so long it can only be classified as self-indulgent shower, but he doesn’t mind.

And Cas didn’t seem to be acting any differently this morning, despite what Dean broke down and told him the night before. Cas is grumpy in the morning but seemed content not to ask questions about _that_ or what Dean had accidently let slip during breakfast. And God, he’s such an idiot. It’s like someone finally started talking to him so he’s just going to spill everything that’s important to him.

He’s going to have to be more careful, but the shower has left him feeling rejuvenated. Cas left out a clean pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt for him to wear, and Dean finds himself hypnotized by Cas’ scent clinging to him. _That_ is probably what he needs to be most concerned about. He can pick up on the minty, clean scent everywhere he goes and it’s doing something to his insides. It smells so lovely and calm.

Per Cas’ instructions he fishes out shaving cream and a new razorblade and gives his face a once-over. When Dean looks in the mirror he is proud to say that he looks substantially less homeless and terrible than before. Who knew he’d be so thankful for running water.

As Dean moves to dispose of the razor he notices the used gauze pads in the trashcan. Guilt claws at Dean, thunders around his skull, because he knows exactly where those came from and who must’ve slipped in here this morning to change them out.

Suddenly Dean feels the same inexplicable, suffocating need to locate Cas that he’d had this morning. Waking up in a foreign place wasn’t a new experience, but the memories of his confession and Cas… Dean had just needed to make sure that Cas hadn’t left, that he wasn’t just waiting for Dean to wake up and let himself out without ever facing him.

Dean hurriedly leaves the bathroom, eyes peeled for a mess of dark hair, but he’s not in the kitchen. When he goes to the living room he finds Gabriel and Cas talking in quiet voices, Cas holding Dean’s blanket from last night as he shoves pillows back into place. Cas looks up as soon as Dean enters the room, and Dean is suddenly singularly aware of how Cas might be standing a little gingerly, slightly leaning to one side. If it weren’t for Gabriel’s presence and a rock-solid mental block keeping him frozen in place, Dean might’ve done something stupid like walking over and hugging Cas.

He doesn’t do that though, and a moment later Gabriel follows Cas’ eyes and whips around.

“There’s our little Gordon Ramsay!” Gabriel’s voice booms.

Dean glances at Cas helplessly.

“Who?”

Gabriel looks offended.

“You seriously need to catch up on your reality TV,” he sighs. Dean can’t help but bark out a genuine laugh at that before Gabriel continues, “I’ll forgive you though, because I nearly cried over your omelet.”

That has Cas grinning at him and Dean feeling light, almost giddy.

“Glad you liked it,” Dean says, unsure if he should offer to cover the costs of the groceries he used or something, but Gabriel’s already steamrolling past him on his way to his bedroom.

“I expect more delicious things in my future,” he calls back, turning to waggle his eyebrows at Dean. Dean watches him until the door closes.

“I thought we could go to the grocery store today,” Cas says, the voice coming very close and Dean turns around to find that he had moved next to him. His bright, _bright_ blue eyes are fixed on him and the fresh scent of Cas hangs heavy in the air.

“You were serious about that?” Dean asks, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Of course,” Cas shrugs, placing the blanket over the back of the couch. “However, I have a bit of a favor to ask first.”

“Anything,” Dean replies immediately, a little drunk on how Cas looks at him from under his lashes.

God, Dean’s screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very sincerely apologize for how long it took me to update this. I won't bore you with excuses, just know that I am determined to never let that happen again.  
> As a gesture of solidarity, I just wrote 4,000 words about Dean and Cas preparing omelets.  
> Feel free to comment or message me on [Tumblr](birdoflastsummer.tumblr.com)!


	13. Stay

It’s Cas’ favorite type of assignment, really. It’s a rare treat that he’s given more than a day – two days maximum – to really dig into a story. To set up meetings with hard-to-pin-down sources, thoroughly research all the laws and their origins, agonize over the lede and write and rewrite the article to his hearts desire.

But Naomi had given him just that. She was probably a bit sick of Cas’ subpar performance for a bit too long for Cas’ comfort, but here he is. Working on a longer-term project on unemployment among the formerly incarcerated.

It started innocently enough — a reader wanted to know what kinds of employment options there were for a family member who was coming to the end of her prison sentence — but it spiraled out of Cas’ hands. He started researching some of the basic licenses that are virtually impossible to get for anyone with a criminal record. And it was a lot. It varied by state, but there were some pretty common ones: well drillers, accountants, truck drivers, electricians, cosmetologist.

Then Cas kept digging. He started looking at the biases for anyone looking to apply for an apartment. Apartments aren’t allowed to hold blanket policies, but it took less than an hour of research and a phone call to a local halfway house to determine that the barrier to entry is very real.

Any contract work that could possibly put an employee on school properties was out of the picture, so some of the big construction companies told him off the record that their hands were tied.

Some fast food restaurants said they had policies against hiring anyone with violent criminal records.

So it wasn’t Cas’ fault, really, when he pushed into Naomi’s office last week.

“I need more time on this unemployment story,” he stated as dispassionately as he could, happy to hear that his voice didn’t betray his nerves as he faced down his editor. He hadn’t exactly earned a longer story, but he needed it.

“Castiel, we’ve been over this,” she sighed, plainly frustrated.

Cas could see her getting ready to launch into a speech on how patient she’s been and how he needs to start producing content regularly, so he tried to head her off.

“I’m serious on this one,” Cas pleaded. “I’m not behind, I just think it needs to be explored more. It needs to be longer.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed.

“How much longer?”  
  
Cas mentally calculated, then weighed it against what he thought Naomi would want to hear.

“So a normal story would be 20-25 inches?” he said slowly, trying to work it out. He paused, taking a breath. “I need 80.”

One of Naomi’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised.

“80.”

Cas nodded definitively. “80.”

“Why the hell should I give you 80 inches?”

Cas flinched, but pressed on.

“Because this is important.” He placed his notes on her desk with the precision of handling a live bomb as Naomi watched him like a hawk. “I’ve been looking at the recidivism rates locally, and they’re off the charts. Did you know almost 40 percent of people who leave prison in this state will end up back in the system within two years?”

“Is that worse than anywhere else in the country?”

“No, but that’s why it’s important,” Cas repeated.

He pulled out the original email the reader sent him from a stack.

“This woman’s niece is being released in less than 4 months. What kind of a life is she going to be able to establish for herself when she’s finished being punished for her offense by the extent of the law?”

Naomi rubbed her temple, looking frustrated.

“Do I need to remind you that you are supposed to be objective?”

“Of course not,” Cas snapped. “I just think it’s something more people need to be aware of.”

“What? That people who have a criminal record have a hard time staying on the straight and narrow?”  
  
“Because they’re systematically denied the very basic resources needed to get on the straight and narrow,” Cas shoots back, now working to keep his voice level.

He takes a moment to take a deep breath.

“I want to educate people. I want them to think about this. I think it’s an important conversation to have.”

Naomi surveyed him closely. Her face was totally impassive for a moment before she picked up a pen and made a note on her desk calendar.

“You have until next Friday,” Naomi announces, still writing. “I want to see a completed draft, and then we can start talking edits.”  
  
That was a few days ago, and Cas had set up an interview with a man who served 25 years in state prison over two sentences. Cas found him through some of his interviews with employees or volunteers who worked with ex-offenders to find jobs or create resumes or adjust to civilian life. Apparently the man was a regular at some of the rehabilitation and training courses and had won over the staff at the halfway house he used to live in.

Cas had only spoke to him a few times over the phone while setting up a time and place to meet, which had turned out to be rather difficult. The only time they could settle on to meet was late Saturday morning, and Cas wasn’t about to ask Dean to leave so he could go to the interview.

Especially not now that Dean’s wrapped in Cas’ shampoo and plain soap, which somehow heightens Dean’s scent now that they’re mixing up. Cas is inexplicably happy to smell himself on Dean, which led to him accidently step a little too close and now most of his brainpower is being used to come up with a reasonable excuse for burrowing his nose directly into the crook of Dean’s neck and breathing very heavily forever.

Tragically, Cas comes up blank.

And now his mind is wandering to the idea of grocery shopping with Dean. Picking out food together, that they can prepare together and then eat together. Dean had seemed so excited to cook the omelets, and Cas wants to know which other of Dean’s meals are world famous. He wonders what Dean’s favorite food is, and what he can do with some fresh vegetables rather than whatever he could scrounge up in Gabriel’s refrigerator.

Cas thinks to his own well-stocked fridge at home. He doesn’t skimp on the vegetables when he grocery shops, and he tries to buy fresh. It is probably the only advantage of Dean and him spending time there rather than at Gabriel’s apartment. A corner of Cas’ mind supplies a half-formed thought about Gabriel not being around being a potential advantage.

“Anything,” Dean’s voice barely registers through Cas’ haze.

“Great,” Cas says loudly, forcing himself to take a huge step back. He bumps into the back of the couch a bit but he hopes Dean doesn’t notice.

He probably did. God. Get it together.

Cas beelines back into the kitchen to gather up some notes he’d left on the counter, keeping his eyes diverted from Dean. He can practically feel Dean follow him into the room and does an unnecessarily thorough job putting his notes in order and lining the edges up.

“Do I get to know what the favor is?” Dean asks lightly from somewhere far too close. Cas jumps a bit and tries to settle down.

“Yes.” Cas clears his throat and meets Dean’s eyes. “We are going to see a convicted criminal.”

Dean, to his credit, doesn’t walk out of the apartment immediately.

“What?”

“We should probably leave now, since I’m not very familiar with the neighborhood,” Cas mutters, suddenly distracted and peering down at his scribbled note on where the man lives.

“Cas—”

“—it only seems polite that we don’t show up late—”

“Yeah, and—”

“What with him being generous enough to let me come over—”

“About that—”

“I’m really not allowed to do anything to show my gratitude though—”

“Cas!”  
Dean’s voice burst through Cas’ fractured, scrambled thoughts.

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean almost laughs, but Cas can feel an edge in the atmosphere. No no no. Does he want to leave? Which part is he upset about? Did he want to the grocery store first? Does he not care about the formerly incarcerated? Does he just not feel like hanging out with Castiel anymore? Is his secondhand embarrassment too strong after Cas ran into the couch?

“This may seem like a dumb question, but humor me: why are we meeting with a convicted criminal?”

Oh. Cas looks determinedly at him.

“Did you know that close to half of everyone who serves time in prison will end up back behind bars in half a decade?”

Dean blinks, then rubs his neck thoughtfully.

“I guess not exactly, but that sounds pretty much right.”

“I’m writing an article about it.” Cas gestures uselessly at his notes. “Not just about that, but about what happens when people get out of prison.”

Dean looks at Cas like he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.

“Why?” Dean asks, then immediately looks guilty. “I didn’t mean—”

“I understand,” Cas says gently, finally shuffling closer. “And officially, I don’t have an opinion. I have to be objective. But the reason I’ve decided to write about it is that — objectively and statistically speaking — these people missing a lot of the basic resources that help them get on their feet after incarceration. It’s an important subject and I want to know why.”

“I can tell you why,” Dean chuckles humorlessly.

“That’s not good enough, Dean,” Cas presses, stepping even closer. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t question why things were happening this way. And who knows. Maybe it’ll cause someone to think twice about it and something can get done.”

Cas can feel the pressure in the room ease away. Cas is close enough now to pick apart every individual layer of scent coming off Dean and his head swims.

“That’s pretty cool of you, Cas.”

Cas looks down self-consciously.

“Just doing my job.”

Dean grins at him and Cas can count his eyelashes and the perfect lines in the corner of his eyes when he smiles.

“Do you want to come with me then?” Cas asks gently.

“Sure, why not?”

Cas nods and starts slipping into his shoes that he’d left at the front door, but he hears Dean clear his throat pointedly from behind him. He turned around to see Dean, arms crossed and leaning against the kitchen doorframe, looking amused.

“Are you missing something?”

Cas’ eyes fly down to the papers in his hands and he starts flicking through them rapidly before realizing Dean couldn’t possibly know if he was missing one of his notes.

“Am… I?” he asks helplessly.

Dean grins again and gestures up and down Cas’ body.

“I’m not a professional journalist, but I think you should wear pants.”

Cas looks down. He’s still in the flannel pants he wore to sleep last night. Oh.

He gives Dean a grateful look, grabs last night’s jeans and slips into the bathroom. He hadn’t bothered to change out of the t-shirt he was wearing yesterday, so he swipes on Gabriel’s deodorant and rushes back out in less than 15 seconds. He can’t help it though, maybe he’s literally drugged off Dean’s presence, so he stops outside the bathroom door and opens his arms for Dean’s inspection.

“Better?” Cas asks.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment but then he’s grinning and it’s perfect.

“Good to know your bedhead is genuine,” Dean says offhandedly as he slips into his own shoes. “If I had found out that you intentionally make your hair look like that I’d poison your parmesan chicken.”

Cas begins working his feet into his shoes again without taking his eyes off Dean.

“Parmesan chicken?” he asked hopefully.

“First, to the convicted criminal!”

 

\-----

 

The man’s house is small and it’s not in a great part of town, but Dean is hardly one to judge. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the ride over, listening to Cas rattle off facts about state bills and resource centers for the homeless and then the politics of resource centers for the ex-convicts —

(“So there was supposed to be a halfway house but the people who lived like a million miles away didn’t want them?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Yeah, 10 blocks,” Cas answered promptly from behind the wheel. “It’s all about property values.”

“They sound like the kind of people who have garden gnomes in their yards. Which means they can’t care too much about their property.”)

— and just generally hear Cas in his element. He’d learned so much about this subject in such a short period of time and, even though he’s not allowed to, Dean can tell he cares. He wants to bring attention to what has to be basically the least sympathetic group of people in the world.

And why? Because Cas is just a good guy, Dean guesses.

They pulled up in front of a house with a chain-link fence and a pitbull prowling the front yard. Cas’ head swiveled from the front door to his notes a few times before nodding definitively.

“Ready?” Cas asked Dean.

Dean shrugged.

“Go get ‘em, Lois Lane.”

Cas rolled his eyes but Dean spotted the flush on his cheeks and grinned as he stepped out of Cas’ car.

The dog started barking immediately, but the front door swung open and a broad, tall middle-aged man stepped out.  
“Cut it out, cut it out!”

The dog’s bark faded into a whimper as it ran to its owner, its tail wagging frantically. The man scratched it behind its ears and waved Dean and Cas in as they approached the fence.

“He doesn’t bite,” the man called over, now bending to work at both of the dog’s ears. “He thinks he’s all tough but he probably wouldn’t know what to do with you if he got you.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Cas says once they’ve gotten closer. Dean can see the dog panting happily and the man shoos him away and invites them inside. The man is definitely giving off Alpha vibes, thick and metallic. It’s not threatening, exactly, but it’s a little overwhelming after spending so much time around Cas and Dean takes a half step closer to him.

The carpet is frayed and stained in parts and the walls are cracked from foundation damage, but it looks clean and modestly decorated. Dean’s eyes gravitate to a small toy desk where a six-year-old girl sits coloring in the middle of a small living room.

“My daughter, Rosa,” the man whispers to Cas and Dean. Dean’s eyebrows contract in question but the girl sighs dramatically and glared at her dad.

“Daddy, no talking in class!” she says, though her words lose steam as she notices the two men behind him.

“We might need to take a little recess,” her dad explains, stepping into the room gently.

The girl immediately stops coloring and shuffles to the far end of the table.

“Who are they?” she mumbles.

“They’re just here to talk to me, because I’m an interesting person,” he says, puffing out his chest exaggeratedly.  
The girl almost cracks a smile.

“No you’re not.”

“That’s mean.”

“Are they here?” a woman’s voice calls, and a middle-aged woman wearing nursing scrubs appears from the kitchen.

“This is my wife, Jaime,” he says, and they all shake hands. Dean suspects she’s a Beta, not picking up much of a scent from her at all. She looks tough but also tired and not completely without her suspicions.

“I made some room at the kitchen table for us to sit,” she says, eyebrows raised at Cas. He thanks her and politely moves into the other room. Cas looks focused and his eyes are zooming around the room picking up details, but he stops and looks back at Dean before entering the kitchen. Dean waves him in.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, rocking back on his heels in the living room. Cas gives him a grateful smile and follows the couple into the kitchen.

Dean can hear Cas’ deep, rumbling voice explaining the premise of what he’s writing about and how he’s hoping to get a bit of insight from someone who’s had to deal with coming out of prison and reestablishing himself. He starts asking questions and the man’s answers are a little harder to make out, but Dean can hear the careful follow-up questions Cas asks and warms at the audible respect in his voice.

Dean listens to Cas talk for so long that he forgets he’s awkwardly standing in the middle of their living room, with a pair of eyes peering at him.

He makes eye contact with Rosa.

“Hi,” he says, giving her a wave.

She assesses him for a long few moments and Dean almost starts to squirm.

“Do you want to join my class?” she asks, eyes still harboring a bit of the suspicion Dean thought he saw in her mother’s eyes, but she was pulling a new piece of paper from her stack.

Dean steps forward a little.

“What kind of class is it?”

“It’s an art class,” she explains. “None of my students are very good. They have a lot to learn before the end of the year.”

She doesn’t have an audience of stuffed animals, but regular household items like a coffee mug and a remote control are lying in rows in front of her desk.

“You sound like a tough teacher,” Dean says, lowering himself opposite her at the table.

“I had to call Jimmy’s parents and talk to them about his tardiness,” she says with an exaggerated eye roll. “But I was always taught that you have to work hard if you want nice things. And then you have to work a little harder.”

“That’s a good life motto to go by,” Dean nods, placing his hands in his lap as she passes him a piece of paper.

“I’m gonna go to Colombia,” she tells Dean. Dean raises his eyebrows at her.  
  
“Colombia, huh?”

“Yep.”  
  
“Where’s that?”  
  
“Colombus, obviously.”

Dean smiles a bit. He doesn’t know where Colombia is either. He picks up a crayon and starting to doodle.

“What do you want to study there?”

“I’m gonna be a vet.”

“That’s great.”

“Or a fire hydrant.”

“You want to be a fire hydrant?”  
  
“Yep. Sometimes I grab the hose and run around with it in the lawn and daddy says I’d be a good fire hydrant.”

Dean nods seriously.

“I understand.”

She gasps when she sees what Dean is drawing.

“Are you drawing Alfredo?”  
  
Dean looks down at his paper.

“Your dog’s name is Alfredo?”  
  
“We found him eating a pizza from a box of Alfredo’s pizza.”

“Then yes, I am drawing Alfredo.”

Dean cannot draw. But he understands that dogs have four legs and a tail and Alfredo’s ears are kind of floppy. Dean even drew on whiskers, which he was pretty proud of. He and Rosa sit in peaceful silence as they both draw, Dean hovering in and out of listening to the conversation in the kitchen and enjoying the simple task of drawing.

He was just going to draw the dog, but… it was unrealistic. The dog needed to be standing on grass, so he scribbled a jagged line with a green crayon. And then the blank background bothered him, so he started filling in some houses and trees, then a sun and clouds. Then he started adding details, like a patterned brick exterior to the homes. He drew a pizza box lying on the ground, and then accented the block of green grass with zigzags of darker green blades of grass.

He is attempting to shade in shadows under the dog when Rosa tugs his shirtsleeve.

“Is his hair more black or brown?” she asks, eyes furrowed seriously.

“Whose?”  
  
“Your Alpha.”

Dean blinked.

He looks down at Rosa’s drawing and sees a crude rendering of his and Cas’ faces peering upside down at him. There aren’t very many definable characteristics of their faces, but ‘Dean’ has spiky light brown hair, round green eyes and a striped shirt. Cas’ eyes are bright, bright blue.

“Dark brown,” Dean says finally, throat dry.

Rosa frowns at her crayons, then holds up the plain brown one and the black one.

“Which one?”

Dean shuffles around to sit on the side of the table and drags his picture with him. He points to the way he’d drawn his grass.

“See this? You can mix the colors together. You can color it in brown and then add black in, like a two-tone sort of thing.”

She starts doing it, demanding for Dean’s approval with just about every stroke across the paper.

“Help me with your Alpha’s face,” she says excitedly after Dean gives her a thumbs up on his hair.

“He’s… got a really straight nose,” he says awkwardly, but Rosa is looking at him like this is incredibly serious business.

She draws two straight lines down the center and then rounds them down into nostrils. Dean nods in approval when she holds it up.

“And uh, some stubble,” he says. She peers at her drawing and back up at Dean, so Dean picks up the brown crayon and starts tapping the crayon to Cas’ face and creating little dots. Dean lightly outlines where the stubble grows on his cheeks and she fills it in, happy that she can use the brown and black crayons together again.

“Mouth,” she demands next.

Dean knows exactly what Cas’ mouth looks like. He could picture it perfectly in his head without trying. Everything from the slightly fuller upper lip and the pouty bottom lip, the way they can look wide sometimes and plump and puckered at other times, the way they get little vertical lines on them and the way his stubble frames it, especially on the top lip. The little scar on his top lip that Cas shrugged off when Dean brought it up, the way only one half of his top lip lifts when he’s half-smiling, flashing that hint of perfectly straight, white teeth.

Something tells Dean that Rosa isn’t prepared for Dean’s explanation of Cas’ lips.

“They’re… big,” is all Dean ends up saying, because she is already drawing an exaggerated bee stung mouth that is not terribly far away from accurate.

She holds up the drawing when she’s done and Dean looks at Cas’ face and grins.  
  
“It’s really good,” he says, his grin spreading to a full smile. “Really.”

“What’s your favorite part?” she demands, looking so pleased with herself.

He looks at the picture again.

“You really nailed his eyes,” Dean says softly.

“Isn’t she talented?” came a loud, happy voice from behind Dean.

Dean jumps and turns around to find that Cas, the man and his wife have all reentered from the kitchen and are watching them. Dean’s face immediately blazes to an unsafe temperature, but he chances a glance at Cas, who looks like he is struggling.

Dean jumps to his feet.

“You guys all done?” Dean verified, trying to regain his composure but feeling every muscle in his body locking up in discomfort.

Cas nods tightly, and Dean claps his hands together and loudly says, “great.”

Dean turns around when he feels a tug on his pants.  
  
“Can I keep the picture of Alfredo?” Rosa asks, looking up at Dean.

Dean picks up the picture and hands it to her.

“Of course.”

He shakes hands again with the man and Jaime and thanks them – for what, he doesn’t know – and hurries out. Alfredo barks but Dean is speed walking through the yard and has the gate open while Cas is still saying his thank yous at the door. Cas follows and Dean waits rigidly by the passenger side door, one hand on the handle.

Dean pulls it a couple times unsuccessfully and impatiently before he realizes that Cas isn’t unlocking the door. Dean lifts his eyes to where Cas is waiting on the driver side, and he is grinning widely. It looks completely sincere, and Dean can feel steam radiating from his face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Cas grins, followed by the small sound indicating he’s unlocked the doors.

Dean huffs and gets in, waiting while Cas puts his notes in the backseat and slides behind the wheel. Dean is trying to act natural, but he is staring out the passenger door so he doesn’t have to look at Cas.

They sit there for a moment while Cas starts the car, and Dean is once again wrapped in the alluring blanket of both of their scents mixed together, which he finds is calming him down despite his embarrassment.

When Cas doesn’t move right away, Dean turns to look at him. Cas gives him a small smile.

“Thanks for coming,” Cas says quietly.

Dean shrugs a little.

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

Cas holds the eye contact for a few moments longer before they’re pulling away, Alfredo’s barking fading, and Cas gently telling Dean to start preparing a grocery list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM THE WORST. I finally have internet again.  
> Let me know what you think here or [here's](casthegrumpy.tumblr.com) my Tumblr.


End file.
